


Retributory Shroud

by meaninglessblah-oc (meaninglessblah)



Series: Retributory Shroud [1]
Category: Original Work, Retributory Shroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate universe - Mafia, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Character, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Breathplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Graphic Violence, Gun Violence, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kink Negotiation, Knife Use, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Multi, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Original Fiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Permanent Injury, Physical Abuse, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Rimming, Safewords, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Threats of Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal threats, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 102,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23308705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah-oc
Summary: After waking up buried beneath a hotel detonation that killed his ex-boss, Alte finds himself hired by the man's nephew and successor, Jugend Erdefunfte. Caught between the charismatically enigmatic mafia don and his stoic handler, Alte finds himself wrapped up in a revenge fantasy with a steadily climbing body count.New bodyguard gets hit on by his bosses, a bratty mafia don and his tired babysitter, who are maybe definitely involved in a murder plot. He's trying his Best™.Weekly updates every Tuesday.Currently on hiatus.
Relationships: Alte Sklavesman/Jugend Erdefunfte, Alte Sklavesman/Jugend Erdefunfte/Kanin Schutzen, Alte Sklavesman/Kanin Schutzen, Jugend Erdefunfte/Kanin Schutzen, Original Character/Original Character/Original Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Retributory Shroud [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869295
Comments: 224
Kudos: 213





	1. Sediment

**Author's Note:**

> All the names are German placeholders that grew on me and became intrinsically linked to the characters and their personalities. A rough guide:  
> \- Alte is pronounced like altar.  
> \- Jugend is pronounced "Yoog-end" or "Yug-end".  
> \- Kanin is pronounced like cannon. 
> 
> This is an AU fanwork for a published novel that I wrote, that transplants characters from the novel but is almost its own standalone work. Please be mindful of the tags, and enjoy!

It takes Alte two days to crawl out from under the collapsed basement garage of the three-storey hotel. Carefully cultivated intervals of shifting debris and preserving energy on a rotating, minutely managed schedule. Working by the light of his cracked mobile until he manages to clear enough to retire into a pocket of space somewhere in what used to be the hotel lobby. Alternating between timed sleeps and delicate excavation until they’d managed to shift enough carnage to slide him out between two marble ex-columns. 

Alte sits on the hood of a cop car and stares at the mangled remains of the gold ‘Waldorf Astoria’ accolade upended into the centre of what used to be a cobbled courtyard. He watches while the cops and the emergency workers pull bloodied and beaten bodies from the wreck. Lay them out across the cobbles for the paramedics to converge upon. 

The rain’s doing a solid job of streaking the grime of dried blood and congealed dust off his arms and neck. His hair’s already soaked through, but it's July, so the precipitation is tepid at worst. Nowhere near cold enough to make him seek shelter yet, and it won’t be for another three months at least. His Midwestern heritage has ensured his skin’s thick enough to take the drizzle that Chicago has to offer. 

Alte grinds his thumb into the ‘O’ of the CPD’s motto emblazoned across the hood he’s sitting on, the heels of his dress shoes hooked into the bull-bar jutting out from its nose. Considers whether he’d be better served smearing some of the brown-red rust that’s coating his knuckles into the windshield, and decides it’s probably just going to get him an excessive reprimand. 

He wants a cigarette. 

He doesn’t smoke, not really, not anymore, but old habits are still habits. Nothing like the steady lull of nicotine to take one’s mind off an unscheduled demolition. Especially when said demolition happens to include you being buried alive in its wake. 

If he had a cigarette, he wouldn’t have to answer all the inane questions the cops and paramedics keep throwing at him. Alte gets that they have a job to do, but he’s fine, honestly. Certainly more intact than most of the bodies they’re just now managing to uncover from the wreckage. Some of their lungs are even intact enough to press long, wailing sobs through as the paramedics crowd them with IVs and endone. 

The rookie cop who’s been assigned to keep an eye on Alte - so far the only conscious and lucid survivor to come out of this mess - shuffles from foot to foot, scuffing his shiny new standard-issue shoes. His expression has been pinched in withdrawn concern for the better part of an hour, and Alte really,  _ really _ wants to punch him, just so he can look at any other emotion on the kid’s face. 

‘Kid’ is a bit of a stretch. He’s young, but he’s definitely older than Alte. Even with the knife kisses, Alte doesn’t look many days over twenty-one, and this cop's probably got at least three years on him, if he’s not totally losing his touch. His rightly youthful appearance still makes it an absolute bitch to convince anyone over twenty-five that he knows what the fuck he’s talking about, so Alte supposes having this rookie interview him is sort of a consolation prize for crawling out of all that debris on an empty stomach. 

“Have you got a granola bar or something?” Alte asks, speaking over some question the rookie’s asking about what he was doing in the hotel. Former hotel now, he muses sardonically. 

Rookie blinks at him, a little slow on the uptake. Wonderful. “‘Scuse me?” 

“Granola bar,” Alte repeats, a tad slower this time. He waves a hand through the air near his face, wrist rolling. “Fuck, I’ll take a stale donut at this point, if you’ve got that.” 

“I don’t eat-” Rookie starts, before the engine finally starts running somewhere up in that skull and his expression jolts into sharp surprise. “Oh, are you hungry? Shit, ‘course, you must be. Hang on, lemme see what I can get you.” 

Alte offers him a watery smile that drops as soon as the Rookie scuttles off to press the paramedics for snacks that Alte’s not going to wait around to collect. Then he slides to the edge of the hood and tests whether his knee can take his weight. It’d been dislocated in the collapse, but the cops didn’t know that. Didn’t need to; Alte had reinserted it just fine on his own while he’d been waiting in his pocket of dwindling oxygen for them to shift enough debris to get to him. 

It holds, but it makes its displeasure known in the flare of heat that lunges up his thigh. Alte sets his jaw and pushes off the hood entirely, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He’s hoping he can dislodge enough of the blood - not his - sticking to his caramel locks, or maybe even some of the blood - that is his - dried under his fingernails. 

He gets all of eleven steps towards the miraculously intact gates of the Astoria before a grizzled looking cop steps into his path, drawing him to a startled halt. “Christ,” Alte hisses, and grips the nearest side mirror for balance, laying on the act. “You scared me.” 

“What’s there to be scared about?” the cop asks lightly, surveying him, and Alte decides immediately that he doesn’t like him. “Where are you going?” 

Alte jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Bathroom. Your boy in blue said I was free to go. Thought I saw a Starbucks a few blocks up, and let me tell you-” He adds a juddering laugh for relieved emphasis, “-I could really use a coffee right now.” 

“I’ll walk you there,” the cop offers, and Alte tries not to let the smile plastered on his face twitch with his irritation. 

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the van he’s been leaning against. And just because he wants to beat this nosy fuck to the punch he offers, “Name’s Alton.” 

“Cogar Reden,” the cop replies, his brown eyes sliding over Alte’s slight limp as he leads the way to the sidewalk. “You good to walk on that?” 

“Yeah, it’s an old injury,” Alte lies, and cuts across the street, heading north down Rush. He casts a glance over at the cop at his shoulder. “You local to this precinct, or did they call you in as back up?” 

“Back up,” Cogar replies. “Not every day a building collapses in the middle of the city.” 

Alte barks a laugh, and stumbles onto a crossing. “Can’t say it does. Have they reached a diagnosis yet, or are we going with structural integrity?” 

“It’s been labelled as suspicious,” Cogar agrees, falling into step beside him. “They’re still working out whether we’re looking at installed explosives or ballistics.” 

Alte blinks at him. “They think projectiles were involved? Who bombs a hotel in Chicago? If I’d known it was such a crash hot location, I would have booked the Ambassador.” 

Cogar’s gaze is sharp. “You had a booking at the Astoria?” 

Alte holds off on answering that for a second as they round on the forest-green storefront. Cogar holds the door for him, and Alte tries to mask his answer as he steps past a woman laden with a tray of coffee. “Yeah, I was parking my car when the thing came down. Didn’t even get to check in.” 

He beelines for an unoccupied booth seat, sliding across the brown leather and unfurling a Hamilton from his back pocket, which he extends to Cogar. 

“I take mine black. Happy to get yours.” 

Cogar frowns, but takes the Hamilton. “You don’t have to pay for mine.” 

“Sure I do. You did me the pleasure of walking me here, officer,” Alte offers. If his smile has more bite to it than is cordial, then that’s just unfortunate. 

“Thank you,” Cogar says after a moment, and circles back to the counter to place their order. 

Alte waits for Cogar to glance back at him from the service line, waits for that sharp gaze to locate him in the booth seat where he left him, and Alte waves once at him reassuringly. Then he slips out with a crowd of college students who are too well-dressed to be studying anything other than business on their daddy’s dime, shielding himself amidst the suits and ties until he’s two blocks away. 

Then he heads for the nearest station. 


	2. Enforcement

He has to catch the red line through to 47th and change over to the 15 line, but the train drops him a block off from the apartment and the rain helps cool him off, so Alte’s not complaining. And he doesn’t have to sit through a thinly-veiled interrogation in a Starbucks, so his mood’s already on the rise. Alte’s too exhausted from climbing out from under a fucking building to deal with any more questions. 

He soothes himself with the promise of a shower and getting to sleep in his own bed, for the first time in near two weeks. The thought makes him smile as he pulls back the wrought iron gate and yanks the keys from his back pocket for the security door. 

There’s a man leaning up against the redbrick that Alte doesn’t recognise. He’s wearing pinstriped charcoal trousers, which is Alte’s first indication that he’s not from around these parts. But this isn’t really Alte’s apartment building, so he’s not really from around here either. 

He is smoking a cigarette though, and Alte almost pauses to pilfer one off him before he focuses on that shower and shoulders through into the apartment lobby. He takes the stairs to the second storey, and flicks back the deadbolt with familiar ease. 

The apartment is well-kept, but it still surprises Alte a little as he crosses the floorboards towards the sofa, tossing his keys onto the coffee table. It’s not like it gets lived in all that much, so Alte doesn’t know why he keeps expecting to come home to find it cleared out. He smiles fondly at the moth-bitten furniture, sucking in a calming breath that washes the residual tension off him. Then he makes a beeline for the first bathroom off the hall, shedding his layers as he goes. 

The shower is scalding hot when Alte scrubs the last of the caked dust from his reddened skin. One thing he really appreciates about this building’s supervisor is her commitment to decent amenities. He’s only ever had one cold shower in this apartment, and that was when the gas company cut one of the lines while doing an installation for the townhouses across the way. 

He’s breathing more steam than air by the time he steps out of the tub and cracks the window. Alte slides into the first pair of sweatpants he finds in the master bedroom, ignoring the way they slip down his hips as he pads out to the kitchen. There’s fuckall in the fridge aside from eggs, so Alte resigns himself to a bland omelette and flicks on the gas burner. 

He’s just managed to flip the gelatinous mass over in the skillet when the muzzle comes to rest against the back of his skull. 

Alte stills immediately, the whole apartment freezing in time but for the soft sizzle of oil beneath his unmoving hands. The gun doesn’t move, doesn’t fire - which Alte’s sure means something important, but his brain is a little too distracted by a _gun_ nudging into his hairline for him to interpret that - and Alte swallows past his dry mouth. “I’m not sharing the omelette.” 

The figure behind him might laugh under his breath, but Alte doesn’t get to explore his alternate career as a stand-up comedian because then a hand is patting him down. He doesn’t move, just keeps his hands in view at his sides, braced on the counter as the figure frisks him efficiently. Even tucks past the waistband of his sweats to check he’s not packing down there. Alte almost laughs. 

“Do I get a blowjob with the feel up, or not?” 

The hand jumps from his ankle back up to his shoulder in unbelievable time, and then Alte’s being pushed forcefully down to his knees. “Down,” the figure orders - _male_ , Alte notes - and he slides down pliantly, keeping his hands on the counter. 

Alte presses his forehead into the laminate and asks, “Do I at least get a clue?” 

“For what?” the figure replies, and flicks the safety off. Alte swallows hard. 

“Who I ticked off?” He tries to spare a half-glance over his shoulder, but the gun digs in deeper when he moves his jaw, and Alte abandons that dumb idea. “Execution-style, really? I hope the ricochet takes you out. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out shooting point blank into a cast iron gas stove isn’t a bright idea.” 

“Who says I’m going to shoot you?” the figure drawls, and Alte has enough time for the surprise to register before the gun gouges deep into the flesh of his neck. He hisses and tries to cant away, but there’s nowhere he can go, bailed up against the cabinet. “What happened at the Astoria?” 

Ah, so this interrogation is his employer’s doing. Or his employer’s sister’s doing? Since his direct employer is technically dead and prematurely buried now. Alte supposes this guy’s really just a lackey, so it’d be his employer’s sister’s lackey’s- 

Fuck, he doesn’t really care. It’s either someone from the same side of the fence that he’s on, or the CPD has really loosened their stance on unethical interrogation tactics. He has good cause to believe it’s the former. Which means he’d be wise to lay all his cards on the table. Still, it’s fun to jerk someone’s chain around if it’ll get him some leverage. 

“What?” 

The hand on his shoulder jerks him back and twists, spinning him around on his knees. His back hits the laminate with a gasp of breath at the same time the hand disappears. Alte has enough leeway to glance up at the figure, drink in the pinstripe trousers and the light stubble, and let faint recognition settle over his features. 

Then the man cranks back the gun and pistol whips him across the jaw. It makes Alte's temple slam into the cabinet doors with the force, and he collapses onto his hands with a bellow of pain. 

He stays crouched like that for a few moments, catching his breath around his rattled teeth and aching jaw as he drinks in the man's appearance through stolen glances. There’s not much to go on, but he’s definitely the guy who had been smoking out the front of Alte’s apartment building, which means he knows more than he fucking should about where Alte makes his bed. 

Alte sits back on his heels, and spits a glob of bloody saliva onto the floorboards, testing whether anything’s broken. It’s not. Still hurts like a motherfucker. 

“ _Ow_ ,” Alte protests, tossing a glare over the back of his hand as he holds his jaw. “The bullet to the skull would have been less painful.” 

“Don't play stupid,” the man demands bluntly. 

“I'm not stupid, I've got fucking tinnitus,” Alte snarls. “Had a building collapse on me. Can’t hear for shit. Getting clocked by a fucking Beretta doesn’t help either.” 

“Grow up,” the man quips, and levels the gun at him again. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” 

Alte groans in irritation, but flattens his hands back against the cabinet doors again. “What do you want, man?” 

“I want you to tell me what happened at the Astoria.” 

“It collapsed,” Alte says plainly. 

He sees the man’s arm pull back this time, but he’s not fast enough to stop the gun slamming across his jaw again, backhand this time. Alte howls and slumps back against the cabinet, the room spinning. 

“Fuck! Stop _fucking_ doing that! Jesus Christ!” He cradles his numb jaw and groans when more blood drips past his teeth to coalesce in his palm. “I’m not going to be able to answer your stupid fucking questions if you keep _hitting me_ , you _dumbass_.” 

“I’m shooting out your kneecap next,” the man warns him, and shoves him back upright, to a mewl of distress. “We know the building collapsed. _Why_ did it collapse?” 

“Finally, a specific fucking question,” Alte sneers around his swollen, bloodstained lips. “And I don’t know, honestly. The meeting went fine. Bieder went to go get a gin and tonic, and I was told to run detail on the guy who was bringing the car around. Next thing I know, there’s a basement on top of me and the cops are swarming.” 

“What happened to the driver?” 

“Dunno,” Alte mumbles, and shrugs. “Seemed pretty dead to me. Tends to happen when two tonnes of Chevrolet gets compacted under a whole hotel.” 

“Why’d he ask you to run detail on the driver?” 

Alte gives him an incredulous expression. “What am I, a telepath? You want me to do a fucking seance and ask the dead guy? I did what Bieder told me to.” 

“Bieder told you to detail the driver?” the man presses pointedly, and Alte scowls. 

“No. His coordinator did. Right hand man. Whatever you want to call him. He told me to go with him.” 

“And you did as he said?” 

“Are you fucking stupid?” Alte asks, and braces when the man cranks the gun back again. He jabs a single finger in his direction. “You hit me with that again and I’m saying fuck all else, you hear me?” 

The man pauses, smirks, and then lowers the gun. “Fine. You’re the boss. Answer.” 

Alte flicks a glance at the gun, but it doesn’t move, so he continues. “Yes, I did what he said.” 

“Anything else happen during the meeting?” 

“Not that I noticed. Wasn’t exactly looking for someone carrying a few pounds of dynamite to walk through the door, though.” 

The man shakes his head. “Not suspicious about the explosion. Anything suspicious about the meeting?” 

Alte frowns. “Not really. Went well, as far as I could see. They came to an agreement, if that’s what you’re asking. Keegan brought muscle, but so did we. He seemed pretty pleased with the outcome before he and Bieder parted ways.” 

“Was he still in the building when it came down?” 

Alte shakes his head. “Nah, he was out for a good five minutes before the explosion happened.” 

“You think he had anything to do with it?” 

“No.” 

The man’s eyebrow arches. “No?” 

Alte shrugs, shifting against the cabinets until he’s sitting properly. “Wouldn’t make much sense to undercut a deal just struck, would it? They both got what they wanted out of it. Pissing off the Erdefunftes is not the best way to ensure the deal goes through. Has he contacted us yet?” 

The man doesn’t answer for a long moment. Long enough that Alte squints up at him and swipes at some of the speckles of blood that landed on his bare chest. “He has.” 

“Well, was it an apology or a threat?” 

“Why do you care?” the man presses. 

“I don’t,” Alte says honestly. “Couldn’t give less of a shit. Except now I’m out of a job and being interrogated in my own fucking kitchen, so I figured it was at least partially my business.” 

“Is this your apartment?” 

Alte glares sharply. “Why do you care?” 

“Boss wants to see you,” the man says instead of answering, and Alte lets it slide. “Nine a.m. sharp, tomorrow.” 

“Why?” Alte asks, and earns a deprecating look for his efforts. “Fine. Who’s your boss, asshole?” 

The man smirks, tucking the gun into his belt. “Jugend Erdefunfte.” 

Alte starts, doing a double take. _The_ Jugend Erdefunfte wants to see him? _Jugend Erdefunfte_ sent a lackey to interrogate him, and then just invites him around for a chat? 

He’s done jobs for the Erdefunftes before. There’s more heads in the clan than on a fucking hydra, so Alte’s worked under a few before. Nothing fancy, just guarding perimeters and holding open doors. Never worked his way up high enough to be on personal protection detail, or even just a driver. 

But he did get enough commendations to be put on Bieder Erdefunfte’s secondary team. Would have thought losing your mark under a hotel would be enough to get you fired, but apparently not. 

Or maybe that’s exactly what the Erdefunftes are calling him in for: to give him the gratitude he deserves for outliving one of their own. 

Alte swallows and frowns up at the man as he adjusts his jacket, concealing the gun in his lower back. “Why me?” 

“Thought that’d be obvious.” 

Maybe. Depends how vengeful the Erdefunfte are. Clans are pretty protective of their kin, regardless of creed. “What happens if I say no?” 

The man shrugs. “We know where to find you.” 

Alte grunts and nods at that, watching as the man navigates out of his kitchen and pauses by the front door. Alte glares at him through the doorway as he gestures back. 

“Your omelette’s burning.” 

Alte tilts his head back and - sure enough - a plume of grey smoke is just beginning to curl out of the skillet. “Fuck!” 


	3. Appointment

Alte sucks in the soothing bite of nicotine and shuffles his dress shoes against the limestone column, shoulders hunched as he glares at the pavement. The dickhead in the pinstripe hadn’t given him an address, but he had woken up this morning to a texted location, and figured that was explanation enough. Hadn’t thought he’d be dragged all the way up to the West Loop. 

It’s one of the Erdefunfte’s meeting houses. One of their _high end_ meeting houses, which had soothed Alte’s concerns that he was going to be offed in the back of some dingy warehouse for all of three seconds, until he realised that meant he was probably going to be going face-to-face with one of the Erdefunfte. He considers that significantly worse. None of the heads would stoop low enough to attend a warehouse execution, or he would’ve been spared the embarrassment of having to explain how one of theirs managed to die on his watch. Even if he was just a secondary. 

Alte sucks down another cigarette and glowers at the neatly trimmed square of fenced lawn in front of him. If he’d known he’d be coming up this far north, he’d have dressed a little better for the occasion. Execution garb is usually pretty smart casual. Didn’t even consider he might need a suit. 

The one he’d been issued when running detail on Bieder was trashed. Even if he managed to stay up all night scrubbing the concrete dust out of the black cotton, the blood wasn’t going to budge. The dress shoes had survived the ordeal, save a few barely noticeable scuffs. Alte’s just relieved that he’d decided to wear a collared shirt. He’d picked out the smallest set of trousers he could find in the apartment, and he still had to wear a belt to keep them comfortably on his hips. The leather jacket sort of spoils the whole look, but then, Alte hadn’t been planning on impressing anyone anyway. He’d thought he’d exchange a few words with one of Jugend’s lackeys, maybe his coordinator’s assistant if he was really lucky. A short conversation, and if no bullets had followed, he’d be home in time for lunch. 

Not a fucking three-hour interrogation with Jugend Erdefunfte him-fucking-self. 

Alte tries to stop shuffling, if only to spare his scuffed shoes any more damage. It’s shaping up to look like a long discussion, and he’s sure they’ll call him in any minute. He just hopes he’ll get to finish his cigarette before they decide to start the Spanish Inquisition all over again. 

He’s never that lucky. The black wrought iron gate swings open, and the muscle in the neatly pressed dress suit beckons him into the courtyard. Alte offers him a pleading, desperate look before snubbing his butt on the concrete and following him in. 

The place is extravagant. Even from the foyer, Alte can tell the Erdefunftes dropped some decent cash on their meeting place. If they’re trying to impress (or intimidate) guests, they’re succeeding. Alte doesn’t know if he should even be allowed to breathe in the marble-and-mahogany interior, or if that would be considered a slight. 

“Upstairs,” the grunt in the suit instructs, and Alte withers when he realises he’s really going to be made to go first, that he’s going to have this asshole shepherding him up to the slaughter room. 

He nods, and tries to pace his breathing as he starts upstairs. Isn’t confident enough to touch the banister, lest he get something on the polished wood. Alte hesitates on the landing, glancing at the row of closed doors. 

“Left,” the grunt orders, and Alte can tell he’s a man of precious few words. He does as instructed, coming around the gallery railing to spot one of the doors open. The man posted to swallow up the frame glances up at their arrival, and steps back to let Alte pass. 

“Ah, shit,” he whispers under his breath as he crosses the threshold, and wraps his hands into fists at his side. 

The room’s all gaping windows and bright light. There are exactly three cashmere rugs to break up the monotony of the timber floors, and a small stocked bar set back into an alcove on the far side of the room. It was probably intended as a bedroom, but now its set up as somewhat of a lounge room, a handful of sofas and armchairs scattered around the wide open space. Every single seat is occupied by a grunt, and every last one of them glances up at Alte’s arrival. 

“Right,” the grunt behind him says, somewhat impatiently, and Alte realises he’s frozen in the doorway. 

“Right, yeah, sorry,” he mutters quickly, and rounds the corner. Does his best to avoid the stares that slice across his back and follow him as he turns into the adjoining room. 

This one has even more, broader windows, and a fireplace. It’s not lit, but it doesn’t need to be. The carved marble speaks leagues about who gets to sit in this room, and in that moment Alte feels woefully underdressed. 

There’s two armchairs and a long, low couch crowded around a bare coffee table. Not even a coaster or placeholder book to break the formality. Both the armchairs are occupied, but it feels presumptuous to take the whole empty couch to himself without being instructed to, so Alte hesitates on the edge of the rug and waits for the two men occupying the room to finish their conversation. 

The grunt doesn’t give him the courtesy. He shoves Alte between the shoulder blades, uncaring as he stumbles forward onto the rug. “Sit.” 

Alte shoots him that pale, pleading glance again, but takes a seat perched on the edge of one cream cushion. Pulls his hands into his lap before he considers that might not be professional, and settles for curling them around the seat beneath him. 

The men don’t pause in their conversation, discussing something about reorganising stocks and bonds that Alte can’t for the life of him focus on. It’s not intended for his ears anyway, so he tries to keep his gaze on the coffee table and not give the impression that he’s eavesdropping. 

They don’t stop talking until a third man comes into the room, and they both look up when he enters, the conversation dying abruptly. He steps across the rug, navigating around the grunt who’s retired into parade rest next to the arm of the couch, and slumps onto the cushions beside Alte, close enough that he can feel the heat of him through his trousers. 

Alte startles, shuffling over hurriedly as the man straightens and clasps his hands loosely between his spread knees. 

“I’m here,” he says, as if signifying that the meeting can begin. “Let’s go. We’re on a clock.” 

Both sets of hazel eyes swivel to fix on Alte, as if he’s going to kickstart this fucking shitshow, and he realises with a sinking feeling that he doesn’t know which one is Erdefunfte. 

They’ve all got hazel eyes, the whole family. The hereditary flag is pretty handy for singling them out in a crowded room, if the way they hold themselves and the way everyone else seems to fall into line behind them wasn’t a dead giveaway. But Alte hasn’t actually spent time around any of the family other than Bieder, and he’s not part of the immediate crowd. Elke Erdefunfte and her litter of five form the central pillars of the clan; her brothers have been taking increasingly distant back seats for the past decade, especially once Jugend, the youngest, came into his early twenties. Which is why Alte, being on the cheap end of the payroll scale, was running protection for Bieder. 

He hasn’t seen the fucking heads in person before, and he has no fucking clue which one is Jugend. He knows he’s in his mid-twenties, but fucked if either of them look older than twenty-five. Alte swallows past the tightness in his throat and opens his mouth. 

“You’re Alte Sklavesman, right?” the one on the left says, and Alte nods after a brief hesitation, shutting his lips. “You were running detail for Bieder, yes?” 

“Yes,” he manages to get out, and the hazel-eyed man on the right picks up the slack. 

“We heard about what happened to the Astoria. Real shame.” His tone suggests it’s anything but. Alte thinks that maybe the other one is the Erdefunfte, since this one’s less presentable. His hair is longer and not as neatly kept, and Alte’s pretty sure the one on the left is wearing a waistcoat beneath that suit jacket. There’s not enough muscle in the first room to justify having _two_ Erdefunfte in the same room, so Alte’s pretty confident he’s only looking at one. 

“He’s the only survivor,” the man next to Alte says bluntly, and he’s focused enough to tell that he’s not family. Maybe one of the tenientes, going by the faint scars he can see on the man’s fingers. Ex-muscle, maybe. He’s not built like the grunts though. “Crawled out of the rubble and right into a nest of cops.” 

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Alte interjects, unsure if that had been a question of his loyalty. “They don’t even have a name to go off.” 

“That’s a good start then,” the teniente offers with a crook of one brow. 

Maybe-Erdefunfte on the left crosses his legs, leaning against one of the wingbacks. “Has anyone else contacted you since yesterday?” 

“Only your man,” Alte concedes. 

“We can see he rough-housed you a bit,” not-Erdefunfte interjects, and Alte feels like he’s watching a tennis match with how much his head is swivelling. He touches the corner of his jaw, remembering the blooming purple bruise there. Alte shrugs. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” the teniente points out coldly, and Alte frowns, because he hasn’t asked a single question since he got here. Then it dawns on him. 

“You listened in on the conversation.” 

The man hums his agreement, but it’s not-Erdefunfte who speaks. “We like to keep an eye on our assets.” 

“Assets?” Alte repeats, confused. 

Not-Erdefunfte shrugs a neat shoulder. “No point wasting good men. You’ll be reassigned to a new detail. Try to keep this mark away from collapsing buildings,” he adds with a wry smile. 

Alte doesn’t know what to say to that, so he glances between the three, marking their impassive silence before he asks, “Who?” 

“Who what?” the man beside him barks, and Alte swallows harshly. 

“Who am I running detail for now?” 

Maybe-Erdefunfte looks disappointed by the question, and Alte shrinks under the gaze. “Jugend Erdefunfte,” he says, like it’s obvious and he’s rethinking his decision to bring Alte under this new wing of their family. Alte might too if he had to point himself out to a grunt like he’s not the most prolific man in the room. 

“Didn’t think I’d get promoted,” he mutters, and the man beside him clears his throat. 

“Speak up.” 

Alte flinches, and sighs, pitching louder. “I said I didn’t think I was due for a promotion. I thought I’d be _de_ moted, to be honest.” 

“Why would you think that?” not-Erdefunfte purrs slowly, before either of the other two can speak. There’s something dangerous in that tone, and Alte wonders exactly what role this guy holds. Sometimes the Erdefunfte bring their accountants or managers to their soirees, but this man seems a bit sharp to be either. Then again, managing the Erdefunfte accounts takes a certain kind of sharpness to pull off. 

Alte stares at him, trying not to blush or pale under the attention. “My last mark was prematurely buried,” he says as evenly as he can. Tries to keep even an ounce of inflection out of his tone. “Thought that’d earn me concrete shoes and a watery grave.” 

The man laughs, the sound slicing through the room. Even maybe-Erdefunfte looks amused. The latter waves a hand to the room in general. “You think you’d be here if we were going to kill you?” 

“No,” Alte answers honestly. 

“Then don’t look so defeated. You’re not on the books yet; you’ve still got to pass muster. But if Schutzen likes you,” he continues, and his slight nod in the teniente’s direction is the only indicator Alte gets, “then you’ll be put on personal detail.” 

“Thank you,” Alte says, because he’s not sure what else one says in this sort of circumstance. 

Schutzen rises to his feet, so Alte does too, taking that as his cue to leave. The not-Erdefunfte leans closer before he can move away, and Alte stares down at his loose smirk. 

“We just wanted to commend you on playing your role,” he says gently, and Alte blinks stupidly at him. The smile grows as the man elaborates, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Despite strenuous circumstances, you performed admirably under _considerable_ pressure.” Alte doesn’t miss the double meaning. “Rest assured it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” 

That feels like a threat if he ever heard one, so Alte nods and follows Schutzen’s lead, extracting himself from beneath not-Erdefunfte’s sharp gaze. He can feel it lacerating his back even as he heads past the room full of muscle, even as the conversation picks up behind him. 

Alte keeps his eyes on Schutzen’s heels and tries not to faint. 


	4. Assessment

Outside the crowded room and away from those piercing hazel gazes, Schutzen offers Alte his hand. “Kanin Schutzen,” he introduces bluntly, and Alte takes it. 

“Alte Sklavesman,” he says, before he realises he already introduced himself back in the room. His head is swimming, but he’s sure that was a stupid thing to say. 

The corner of Schutzen’s lips quirk in an aborted smile. “Breathe, kid.” 

Alte does, dragging in a sharp breath as he glances around the empty gallery, at the polished balustrade and the gilded paintings on the walls. “Yeah, sure, you trying being interrogated by the Erdefunftes,” he mutters sourly. 

Schutzen does laugh this time, startling Alte. “I do, every Thursday evening,” he says wryly. “Someone’s gotta report back up to the big wigs. Tell them how their investments are being furthered.” 

“So you _are_ a lieutenant then,” Alte says with a little hitch in his heart rate. Didn’t think he’d ever get to stand in the presence of one of the Erdefunfte’s right hand men. Bieder’s coordinator hadn’t been a man of very refined tastes. Nothing like the man in front of him. Schutzen looks like he could snap a man’s neck in one minute and order a three course meal in French in the next. 

Schutzen shoves his right hand into his pocket, the movement at once casual and stifling. “Nothing so fancy. I go by ‘Jugend Erdefunfte’s coordinator’ most days. You can call me Kanin. Everyone else does.” 

“I can?” Alte says before he can stop himself. Kicks himself for how impressed his tone sounds. 

It makes Kanin smile, which surely can only be good. “At least until I decide you’re not good enough to polish Jugend’s shoes.” 

Alte feels the smile slip from his slack features, but he tries to shrug casually. “To be honest, I thought I blew it with that performance back there. Didn’t think you’d want an encore.” 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, kid,” Kanin replies, stepping off to open the middle door against the far wall. Alte’s obviously meant to follow, so he does. “You did fine. They’re genuinely impressed with how you handled the Astoria fuck up. And everyone knows you didn’t have any hand in it, so you can stop panicking that someone’s going to put a bullet in your back.” 

“Good to know,” Alte mutters, and glances around the room. This one’s darker, with wood-panelled walls and the thick red curtains drawn. It’s obviously meant to be a study, with a huge monolith of a desk against the back wall, and another armchair set against the near left. A bookshelf consumes what remains of the rightmost space. There’s a rug immediately inside the door, and Alte can spot two sets of double doors before the ‘office’ section of the room starts. It must be Kanin’s workspace, because the man doesn’t hesitate to cross the rug and pull back the burgundy leather high-backed chair tucked into the desk. 

That’s when Alte notices he’s limping. It rushes up on him like a car on a dark night. 

“You’re _Jugend’s_ lieutenant,” he realises, the emphasis lost on him until now. “You took a bullet for him last week.” 

Kanin smirks at him and doesn’t sit down yet. “News travels fast around here, doesn’t it?” 

Alte shrugs. “I might have been under Bieder, but I’m not totally out of the loop. We were told someone had taken a shot at Jugend Erdefunfte during a meet up, and that his lieutenant had taken the bullet. Straight into his knee cap.” 

“Good to know the rumors are accurate,” Kanin retorts sarcastically. “I didn’t get shot in the knee cap. It did a little more than graze me, and happened to dislocate my kneecap in the process.” Alte winces, but Kanin doesn’t acknowledge it. “Not nearly as heroic, but not as drastic either. I’m still out of commission for the next six weeks, so I need a stand in.” 

Alte’s not sure anyone’s pulmonary system can survive the shock of another hit and run, but apparently he’s going two for two tonight. “Oh fuck, you want me to replace you.” 

Kanin’s gaze is cutting, and if Alte didn’t know better, a tad offended. “Not replace, kid. More like relieve.” 

“But me,” Alte stresses, as if unsure whether he’s heard correctly, and approaches the desk. “You want _me_?” 

“You don’t think you’re a good candidate?” Kanin shoots back. 

Alte opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “Not what I said. But I didn’t think I’d make the cut.” 

“We’ve been paying more attention than you think,” Kanin points out, and pulls out a drawer to leaf through its contents. “But yes, you made the cut, on Jugend’s personal recommendation. Don’t ask me why; I’ll be damned if I know how that son of a bitch’s mind works. But he likes you, for some reason, and I’ve had a look through your history, and I’d agree you’re a decent candidate.” 

“My history?” Alte prompts as Kanin continues to rifle. 

“You worked with the Keegans previously, which is why you were put on Bieder’s detail. You started low and you’ve worked your way up in record timing. Seems like you know your way around a hierarchy, and not the back door way, if you know what I’m implying. You’re a good, honest worker, and I like men who know their worth.” He pauses, contemplating something as he tilts his head. “I like men who know their place too, but you don’t strike me as someone to shirk a direct order.” 

“No,” Alte agrees, and Kanin goes back to searching through his drawer. 

“So you’ve passed the initial inspection, kid,” Kanin says without fanfare, meeting his gaze. “Now you just have to pass stage two and we’ll be signing the papers.” 

Kanin hands him a slip of blank paper, which Alte takes and stares at blankly for a few minutes before he raises his head and asks, “What exactly am I supposed to be doing with this?” 

Kanin slumps into his desk chair with a groan, his uninjured leg hitching up to lay over the wood as he tilts back. “Write your full legal name, your birthdate, your passport if you’ve got one, and your social security number.” 

Well. There goes the interview. Alte blinks, then smiles to himself and folds it back over, offering it back to Kanin. “I’ll save you the time. I can give you the first two, but I don’t have a passport or a social security number.” 

Kanin stares at him, impassive, and Alte waits there, arm extended, for a few more moments before he drops the slip of paper onto his desk and approaches the cabinet of decanters. If he’s going to be unceremoniously dumped out the front of an Erdefunfte meeting house and this might be his last time inside these walls, Alte might as well take a stab at trying out the finer decorations it has to offer. 

“Why don’t you have a social security number?” Kanin asks pointedly, a hint of agitation underlining his tone. 

Alte scoffs, fingers wrapping around the first amber decanter he finds behind the glass door. He hooks out two tumblers and pours a nip in each. “Why, does that make it hard to track my history down?” 

Kanin says nothing, but Alte hadn’t really been expecting an answer. He folds up the cabinet neatly before turning back to the desk. Alte hands the other man a tumbler, a little surprised when Kanin takes it without resistance. 

Alte slumps into the opposite armchair with a groan, holding off on taking a sip in favour of enjoying Kanin’s expression when he says, “I wasn’t born here legally. So I don’t have a social security number; never have.” 

Kanin’s shock is beautifully metered behind an impassive mask, but Alte’s spent enough time around him now to notice the way his jaw tightens and his lips twist downwards. “No birth certificate either, I presume?” 

“Correct,” Alte purrs, throwing back his nip. He doesn’t miss the way Kanin winces at his abuse of good whiskey. “Didn’t go on record when I was born, and haven’t needed to since. Haven’t been able to for a while now anyway, even if I did.” 

“Well, fuck,” Kanin mutters, and Alte watches him as he drinks his whiskey. 

“I’m guessing I wasn’t wrong then.” 

“You weren’t wrong,” Kanin confirms on a sigh. “We screen everyone we work with. Everyone who works with Jugend, anyway.” 

“I could be your anomaly,” Alte offers with a biting smile. Kanin shares his sentiment. 

“Sorry, kid. I’m too good at what I do to let an unregistered brat slip by my watch. If you can’t front up, then you don’t get to run detail on any of the Erdefunftes.” 

Alte’s smile sours. “That’s some bullshit. I’m the most qualified for your job, aside from you, obviously.” 

Kanin’s brow arches. “I wasn’t aware this was a job interview. But please, do elaborate.” 

Alte’s sure he’s crossed into some unmarked minefield. He can tell by the way Kanin’s eyes are flat and sharp as they slide over his body. Alte leans forward anyway, shifting in the armchair until he can rest his forearms across his thighs. 

“You know I’m good at what I do. I don’t need to give you a demonstration, unless you need to be reminded. I’m loyal, ‘scuse the humility, and I’m smart enough to know when to keep my head down and when to speak up. I don’t cause waves. I’m not trigger-happy. And I’m on the hook more than any other man on your payroll, because I can’t get a cash-or-cheque day job anywhere else in this fucking country, so you can laud that over me if it helps you sleep better at night.” 

“Knowing that you know that makes it null,” Kanin points out blandly, and Alte rolls his eyes. 

“Sure, I could try for a hospitality or retail gig if I really wanted to. Even trade work. Lots of people happy to pay twenty-one-year-olds under the table for good ethic. But I’m scarred up and I’ve got enough brands to scare off the yakuza, so no one wants to touch me with a ten foot pole. This is the only line of work I’ve succeeded in, and I happen to like your boys more than Keegan's, or Polenesky’s, or Marolleni’s.” Kanin snorts quietly, and Alte forges on after a pause. “I’m not asking to be you. I don’t want to be Jugend’s right hand man, if that’s what’s got you freaking. I just don’t want to go back to perimeter work and photocopying, okay? I’m good at what I do; I deserve a decent position. And I’m willing to work to keep it. So I’m asking you, _nicely_ , to put me on an Erdefunfte detail. Fuck, I’ll be the guy who holds the door open for them if that suits you. Just give me something that’s worth my while, and I’ll make it worth yours.” 

Kanin stares him down long enough that Alte starts feeling fidgety, so he slumps back in the armchair with a sigh and starts to apologise. Kanin cuts him off. “I can admire your perseverance, kid. I’m sure it's served you well before. But brains and skills isn’t enough to get you on Erdefunfte’s detail.” 

“Yeah, but he likes me,” Alte asserts, startling Kanin. 

“Who?” 

“Jugend Erdefunfte,” Alte provides, and watches Kanin’s features descend into a scowl. Before Kanin can get the snarled words out, he’s already rushing into his next convincing sentence. “You spend all day playing Erdefunfte’s shadow, right? A role like that requires someone personable. Someone who’s not a brick wall, but isn’t stupid enough to mistake thinking they’re one of the family.” 

“You’re walking a fine line, here, kid,” Kanin warns, and Alte waves him off, leaning forwards. 

“I’m just stating facts. I can be a good shadow.” 

“You make a lot of noise for a shadow.” 

“I’ll make less noise then,” Alte promises evenly. “I won’t open my mouth even once, if that’s what you want.” When Kanin’s eyes narrow, Alte presses on, determined to stop him from getting his rebuttal in. “Look, for whatever reason, Jugend’s taken a shining - of sorts - to me. Don’t know why, don’t care why. But he has. Which means _he’d_ want me on his detail.” Alte licks his lips once before adding, “And I’m pretty sure he outranks you.” 

The silence is deafening. Alte’s never felt an atmosphere draw so tight and taut around him before, as if the whole room is constricting on him, shaking him as if to demand _what_ he was thinking. Challenging Kanin. Baiting him. Does he have a death wish? 

Alte’s felt rooms like this before, back when he was fighting in the rings. The way it feels like a wire is being drawn between him and the figure in front of him, wrapping tight around his chest until he can feel every shift and movement of his opponent. Until he can respond almost before they can, pre-empt their moves. 

When Kanin shoots to his feet, Alte lunges back, scattering the armchair. 

It takes him a moment to realise there’s no knife, or gun, or whatever he’d thought Kanin would level on him. Just the burning glower that’s roiling through Kanin’s gaze, and that’s much, much more dangerous. Alte doesn’t sit back down. 

Kanin jabs a finger in his direction. “You’ve got a stupid mouth on you, kid.” 

“Sorry,” Alte says flatly, but not insincerely. His eyes flick down to Kanin’s hands, gauging what his next move will be before he glances back up to meet his gaze. 

Kanin smiling, and oh, it’s a wicked, wicked thing. It’s a ‘last smile’ sort of smile. As in, the last smile you see before he buries a knife in your brainstem. It makes Kanin’s eyes flicker darkly and presses the air from Alte’s lungs with its razor-sharp ferocity. 

“Sorry,” he repeats, his tone just as even as before. 

Kanin takes one hobbled step around the desk, and Alte counters it, matching his distance as Kanin pauses, surveying him. The smile doesn’t leave his eyes, but his mouth slackens. “What are you doing, kid?” 

Alte swallows, unblinking. “I don’t know.” 

Kanin hums. “Didn’t think so.” 

Then he slides a hand into his pocket and pulls out a neat switchblade, flicking it open as he gestures to the chair Alte’d pushed a few feet back from the desk in his haste to bolt. 

“Sit,” he orders bluntly, and Alte hesitates. Only until Kanin’s dark gaze snaps up to his, infinitely impatient, and Alte realises he’s not going to make it to any of the carved double mahogany doors on either side of the study before Kanin buries that knife in his neck. 

He doesn’t need to be told again. Alte straightens, closing the distance between them with his pulse pounding frantically in his ears and sits down in the armchair, his mouth a flat, terse line. 

Kanin’s hand snaps down before he can react, but he flinches belatedly anyway. He needn’t’ve, because Kanin just wraps one scarred hand around the underside of the seat and drags the armchair - and Alte in it - back towards the desk. 

Then he grunts and hooks a heel into the cushion between Alte’s spread legs and boosts himself up onto the edge of the desk. 

Alte doesn’t take his eyes off that knife the whole while, watching its slow arch at his side, and then its pirouette as Kanin spins it once in his palm. He can feel his heart lodged tight and uncomfortable in his throat. 

“That was the smartest thing you’ve done all night, kid,” Kanin mutters, and then he meets Alte’s gaze. If he had any air left in his lungs, it’d be gone now. The knife doesn’t approach, not yet. “Now we’re going to talk about why the fuck you think I’d give a shit about Erdefunfte liking you or not. And why you think that’s going to keep you alive.” 

They’re unbearably close. There’s an odd sort of intimacy in the way that Alte’s just above eye-level with Kanin’s good knee, his other dangling limply off the desk. He’s pinned, legs hitched around Kanin’s dress shoe as he contemplates just how difficult it would be to launch himself over an armrest to get away from him now. Contemplates just how that knife would feel sinking deep into his shoulder as he tries to scramble out of the pin. 

“I don’t think anything’s keeping me alive,” Alte replies gently, and Kanin nods distractedly, as if he should continue. So Alte swallows and keeps talking, keeping his tone pacifying and even. “Like I said, I don’t know why Erdefunfte’s taken an interest in me. I’m certainly not trying to get his attention, trust me. But I’m getting it anyway, for God knows what reason. I just think that maybe both you and he would appreciate having someone they can trust on their books.” 

“Trust?” Kanin repeats drily, and Alte winces. 

“Well, not trust, no,” he amends. “Not in this business. How about rely on? I’m as reliable as they come.” 

“Your last mark ended up buried under twenty-thousand tonnes of concrete,” Kanin interjects sharply. “Reliable is not the term I’d use for that assignment.” 

Alte glares. “That assignment was the reason you even called me in here in the first place. Something about commending me for my infallible service? That was _your_ idea, not mine, so I think we’re both at peace with what happened to Bieder.” 

The blade comes to rest against the side of Alte’s throat, hitched into the soft skin below his jawline. He freezes up, hands clenching on the wooden armrests hard enough that they creak beneath the force. Alte exhales through his nose and holds Kanin’s amused gaze. 

“You have,” Kanin murmurs, his words laced with quiet amusement, “an auricular nerve in your neck, right here.” He digs the blade in a little deeper, and Alte tries not to cant away from the cold metal. “Do you know what happens when I cut this?” 

He can’t shake his head, but Alte (stupidly) almost does out of sheer reflex. Then he corrects and responds in a choked voice, “No.” 

“You lose the connection between your inner ear and your cervical nervous system. Your balance,” he translates with a sharp smile. “And if I’m careful and you’re unlucky, I nick your retromandibular vein. It’s the one here.” He shifts the blade, canting it slightly up into Alte’s jawline as he swears and rises an inch off the chair. “It won’t be as drastic as severing a jugular, but it’ll tingle like a motherfucker. Take all the blood out of that stupid fucking mouth of yours. Do you want to try it?” 

Kanin’s words are flat, emotionless. They make the blood rush out of Alte’s face in a needling exodus. “No, sir,” he answers clearly, holds his gaze with piercing terror. 

Kanin hums in amusement. “What’s your name?” 

“A-Alte?” 

“Full name,” Kanin barks. 

“Alte Sklavesman,” he amends quickly, and swallows down the saliva that’s flooding his mouth. His pulse is ricocheting against his ear drums. 

“No middle name?” 

“No.” 

“Unfortunate.” It’s said offhandedly, like he’s commenting on the weather and not holding a knife to Alte’s throat. “When’s your birthday?” 

“April 30th, 1999.” 

“Do you want to change your answer?” Kanin sneers mockingly, and Alte glares, but its weak. 

“No. My birthday’s April 30th. I’m twenty-one.”

“Where were you born?” 

“Wisconsin.” 

“Address, kid. Don’t play coy.” 

“I’m not– fuck. 2325 Forest Avenue in Beloit, Wisconsin. That’s where I grew up, okay?” 

“I didn’t ask where you grew up.” 

“Well I wasn’t fucking born in a hospital, so I don’t know what else to give you,” Alte snarls. 

Kanin grunts, but doesn’t press the issue. “What elementary school did you go to?” 

Alte stares at him like he’s insane. “Gaston Elementary was a mile from my house.” 

“Did you go to Gaston Elementary?” Kanin presses, tilting his head mockingly, as if trying to coax the answer from him is tedious. 

“Sure, for a bit.” 

“What do you mean ‘for a bit’?” 

Alte shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t stay in school much. I ran courier instead.” 

Kanin blinks at him, momentarily surprised. Then it fades back to a cold professionalism. “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” 

“Sklavesman.” 

Kanin twists the knife a little, and Alte hisses. “I said _maiden_ name.” 

“That _is_ her maiden name,” Alte snarls back. “I wasn’t taking that fuckwit’s surname, so I kept hers.” 

Kanin’s smile is deprecating. “Have you got daddy issues, Sklavesman?” 

“Fuck you. My stepfather was an abusive fuck. The only issue I’ve got is that he’s still breathing. What else do you want to know?” 

“You keep in touch with your mother?” 

“No.” 

“Your stepfather?” 

“Fuck no.” 

“You got sisters?” 

“No.” 

“Brothers?” 

“Three.” 

“Names?” 

“Irre, Ruhe and Scheun.” 

“Do they live in Illinois or Wisconsin?” 

Alte blinks, dumbfounded, and shifts his gaze down to Kanin’s open collar as he tries to think past the mess of blood in his head. “I… I don’t know. Wisconsin, I guess.” 

“What do you mean, ‘I guess’?” 

“I don’t keep tabs on them. They’re in school. I hope.” 

“Are you straight?” 

Alte’s gaze slices up, a frown hitching into his brow. “Excuse me?” 

“Are you straight as the day is long, or do you like a man between your legs?” Kanin drawls, studying his expression, and Alte’s very minutely proud in that moment that he doesn’t blush. The indignation’s enough to keep him centred. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

The hand that Alte hasn’t been paying attention to wraps around his throat and cracks his skull against the wooden back of armchair. The knife doesn’t part from his throat, following his arc backwards to stay snug against his skin. Kanin’s teeth are bared in his snarl this time, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Because you’re an off-grid fucking street brat with nothing to your name and no one to check up on you if you find yourself at the bottom of a marsh. So answer the fucking question.” 

“Fuck off,” Alte croaks out around the palm pressing his windpipe back. His hands tremble once on the arms of the chair, itching to bury in Kanin’s smug face, but the knife keeps them steady. “That has shit all to do with whether or not I can run protection detail. Unless you’re a homophobic prick-” 

The second time his head cracks against the chair, the recoil is sharp enough that he bites into his tongue. 

“Fuck! Stop _doing_ that,” he whines, and runs his tingling, agonised tongue over his gums to work the blood back into it. “I haven’t fucking lied to you yet. I don’t see why you give a shit whether I’m straight or gay or whatever-the-fuck-else. What’s it got to do with anything?” 

“You don’t want to tell me,” Kanin purrs, low and violent, and Alte stills. He’s much closer now, swallowing up the distance until Alte can’t see anything other than those dark, flat eyes and feel the kiss of stainless steel against his jugular. “Which makes it very much my business.” 

“Is this because I wouldn’t give you a social security number?” 

“You keep asking stupid questions, and I’m gonna have to split your skull open on this chair,” Kanin promises lightly, and Alte pales. “Answer the fucking question.” 

“I don’t know,” Alte answers, shrugging petulantly. “Never really thought about it long enough to put a label on it.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“What answer do you want to hear, then?” 

Kanin chuckles, and the sound is grating in Alte’s ears. “Don’t think you’re smart enough to think ahead of me, kid. If you tell the truth, then you don’t have to be smarter than me.” 

“I’m not smarter than you,” Alte returns evenly, holding his gaze. “But the truth’s not getting me very far, so I thought I’d try being smarter about it. I can try to be an absolute dumbass if that’ll get you to take your hand off my throat.” 

“Shouldn’t be too far a leap for you,” Kanin responds, but eases back off his neck an inch. Alte sucks in a deep, grateful breath. “I’m _asking_ you, kid, because I’m trying to work out if you’re likely to spill your guts to a two-cent whore on your days off. Because I can’t afford to have men who lose their head when their other head gets a little attention.” 

“Do I look like someone who’d go whoring?” 

“Don’t take the moral high ground with me, kid. We’re all human. I just want to know if you can keep your mouth shut.” 

“I kept my mouth shut about Bieder, didn’t I?” Alte challenges, because he can tell Kanin is an actions-over-words guy. The man’s tight, pleased smile tells him all he needs to know. 

“Smarter than you let on, aren’t you?” 

“Just intuitive,” Alte counters, and lets some of the tension ease off his chest when Kanin withdraws both his hand and the knife. Doesn’t stop crowding him, but he’ll take small improvements over none. “Satisfied?” 

“Never,” Kanin replies with a private grin. “But you’re clean for now.” 

Alte blinks up at him, stilling. “Does that mean I’ve got the job?” 

“Again, not an interview. But I’ll put you on exterior detail for the next week. If you don’t completely fuck it up, we can talk about whether you’ve got what it takes to run personal detail.” 

Not what he was hoping for, but Kanin knows what he’s doing dangling that tasty morsel in front of him. Alte can resign himself to sweating through his suit on a doorstep in the midsummer Chicago heat if it means he’ll get a shot at protection detail for any of the Erdefunfte. 

Kanin pushes back up further onto the desk, pulling out of Alte’s personal space and sliding the armchair back a foot as he does. He jerks his head towards the double doors to their left. “Check in for a new suit and pack. Be back here at oh-eight-hundred day after next. Don’t keep me waiting.” 

“Thank you,” Alte says around his grin, jerking to his feet. Kanin watches him coolly over an amused smirk. “Thanks.” 

“Showing your age, kid,” Kanin calls as he bolts for the double doors, and flicks the knife closed to slot it back into his pocket. “Wipe that dumb grin off your face.” 

Alte, safely shielded by the expanse of the door, flips him the bird as he takes his leave, Kanin’s stilted laughter echoing down the hallway after him. 


	5. Impediment

Alte fucks up on his sixth day. 

It’s not intentional. It’s just a culmination of shit luck and bad battery life. In short, his phone dies, and Alte’s not where he should be. Which is playing human shield for Jugend Erdefunfte. 

He’d found out which one was Jugend Erdefunfte too, two days in. It’d taken a few choked minutes of trying not to curl into a humiliated ball at his post by the front gate and another two days of convincing himself that Jugend hadn’t noticed the slip before Alte had been able to summon up the will to look the man in eye again. 

The accountant was not Jugend Erdefunfte, and Jugend Erdefunfte was not the accountant. 

Which wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. Because - all credit to Alte - Jugend Erdefunfte _was_ an accountant, just not in the traditional sense. He managed the Erdefunfte books, which meant that he was personally responsible for every dealer, bookie and grunt that found their way onto the Erdefunfte payroll - and every person who ended up at the bottom of an unassuming marsh when they flaunted it. 

He was astute as they came. Could sum a man’s worth up in the few seconds it took to shake his hand, put every last one of them on the hook before they even realised the line had been cast. He was a stupidly good negotiator, and could play the flippantly naive role like he’d been born into it. 

It wasn’t a mystery to Alte how the newest generation of Erdefunfte siblings had managed to shoulder their predecessors out of seats at the head table. Alte almost felt sorry for Bieder. He might have been shrewd as a young man, but old age and decades of being out of touch with the new breed of criminal had sent him to a figurative and literal early grave. 

Alte didn’t want to ask what Jugend had seen in him to earn him a personal recommendation. The man knew every single member in every single rank of the Erdefunfte hierarchy by name. Which meant he knew every lieutenant and lieutenant’s lieutenant, and Alte wasn’t proud or stupid enough to think that he could measure up to the men even five ranks deep in the Erdefunftes’ pockets. So he must have done something stupidly appealing to have Jugend Erdefunfte’s teniente hold a knife to his throat. 

It obviously took something significant for Kanin - and by extension, Jugend - to overlook their standard recruitment process. Otherwise Alte would have been gone any one of the times he’d pushed the letter that morning with Kanin in his office. 

He’s pretty sure he’s outlived any leniency Jugend was giving him now. 

He’d been scheduled to run perimeter on a meeting house he’d been to before; a spacious apartment in River North with a stunning view out the fifty-fourth storey windows. They owned the apartments on the floors above and below as well, for good measure. Alte had been scheduled to run surveillance on one of those floors when Jugend's guest had switched up the plans. Had gotten absolutely plastered in the hotel bar he was staying in and couldn't make it any further up Chicago's east side than the lobby without puking his guts out. 

They'd changed locations the night before he was due to show up at work, while he'd been doing an overnight hustle job for one of Jugend's clergy. An accountant or a stock broker - Alte can't really tell the difference. He was supposed to stand there and look threatening until two am, and then crash on one of the beds upstairs in an apartment Kanin had directed him to, ready for a six am start. 

He'd forgotten his phone charger, and his phone had died. His phone, with the address texted to him, and no battery left to run the GPS on. The address that, even though he'd read it fifteen fucking times, Alte couldn't get the letters to stick in his thick skull. 

He stands in the ensuite, the shower hissing behind him as the phone shakes in his hands, and then he bolts for the kitchen. Tears the apartment half apart trying to find a phone or a charger or literally anything technological to rectify this colossal fuck up. And because this apartment is a standing house - the sort of low-key residence you use arbitrarily to host displaced lackeys for a night at a time - it's missing some of the essentials. 

Alte spends a good seventeen minutes frozen on the tiles, trying to work out what he's going to do. Who he can possibly get in touch with to give him the information. He'd written it down, because sometime last night his stupid brain had been switched on enough to do that, but without internet, Alte's got no fucking way of working out how to get there. 

There's nothing. He can see the letters, for sure. Just can't make any words out of them. Can't get them to mesh together enough to make sense to someone else, let alone him. 

By six forty, Alte's out of ideas and late enough that there's a decent chance Kanin's going to haul him over the balustrade just to make an example of him. By seven thirty, Alte's calmed down enough that he can resign himself to that fate, and flags down a cab for the West Loop, back to the first meeting house. The one with Kanin's office nestled on the second floor. 

Let's himself in and trudges up to the study on numb, zombified footsteps until he's standing outside the double doors. The clerk there shrugs into the room with a final frown in Alte's direction, and he winces when after a few minutes the heavy footsteps come ringing back across the timber on the other side of the closed doors. 

Kanin throws them open, takes one look at Alte's dejected expression, and says, “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Ohio Street.” 

“Yeah,” Alte croaks, and Kanin scowls. 

“Get in here,” he orders coldly, and the clerk extracts himself around the pair of them as Alte closes the doors behind himself. 

Kanin's already heading back to his desk when he demands, “What's going on, kid? It's not like you to fuck up this bad. Why aren't you in Streeterville?” 

Alte's mouth works, but the words lodge in his throat, sticky with shame, and he can't get them out. 

Kanin rounds on the desk and fixes him with a flat glare. “Start talking, kid. You're this close to being out of a fucking job.” 

“I couldn't read the address,” Alte confesses numbly. 

Kanin digests that in a spare few seconds. “Tragen texted it to you, didn't he?” 

“Yeah,” Alte whispers hoarsely. He can feel tears itching their way up the back of his throat. “He did, he texted me. I- My phone died and I didn't have a charger-” 

“You didn't memorise the address?” 

“I wrote it down,” Alte protests, and Kanin looks blankly at him, like he's mad. 

He opens his mouth, lips forming as if to ask, “Then what's the fucking problem?” Then he pauses. What comes out instead is, “I don't understand, kid.” 

Alte chokes on his explanation, and Kanin stares him down, unflinching. 

“Come on, kid, enlighten me here. The address was on your phone. Your phone died. You wrote it down. Why didn't you just use that?” 

Humiliation flushes through him, hot and cloying, and Alte croaks, “I can't read.” 

Kanin blinks. “What?” 

“I can't _read_ ,” Alte repeats, weakly insistent. “I can't fucking- I never learnt how. I had the address in my hand and I couldn't fucking read it. That's why I use the GPS; I just have to copy the letters across. But my phone was dead and I couldn't read the fucking address and I-” 

“Why didn't you give the address to a cab driver?” Kanin asks, cutting him off, and Alte freezes. 

The silence is like ice, hard and unshifting in his lungs and in the pit of his stomach. Alte stares at Kanin for what feels like an age before reality seeps back in like a tepid rain over a glacier. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispers dejectedly. “I'm sorry, I didn't- I panicked, and I didn't think, and I didn't want you to _know_ , and I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, and-” 

“Shut up, kid.” 

Alte swallows the rest of his apology down, the jagged pieces rough on his throat. Squeezes his nails into his palms hard enough that they hurt, and keeps his gaze on the rug between his shoes. 

Kanin sighs, and Alte can _feel_ the disappointment. Can't bring himself to see it in the man's gaze, mocking him. “You never went to high school, did you?” 

The question shocks him a little, enough that he can fumble together an answer. “No, I didn't.” 

“And you didn't finish elementary school either.” 

“No, sir.” 

“Fuck, Sklavesman,” Kanin hisses with exasperation. “This is the sort of thing you've got to tell me on day one.” 

“I know. I'm sorry, sir. I really am. I'm sorry.” 

“Don't call me sir,” Kanin says sternly, and Alte's lips snap shut. Kanin runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Shit, kid. Fuck. Can you read at all?” 

Alte shrugs, the motion short and jarring. “I can read my name. Some really basic words. Like animals and stuff.” 

“Can you put together a sentence?” 

Alte shakes his head, and Kanin sighs again. 

“Do you know the alphabet?” 

Alte frowns. “Verbally. I can say-” 

“Verbally?” Kanin repeats, with a confused frown. 

So Alte launches stiltedly into a slow rendition of his ABCs. Kanin cuts him off at D. 

“No, kid, I mean- Can you write all your letters?” 

Alte squirms uncomfortably. “I can copyscript them. Like, write them out again if someone writes them down. And I can copy written words to type text. But I don't know what they say. I can't read-” 

“Okay. That makes sense. Okay.” Kanin nods to himself, and Alte can see the cogs turning over behind his slightly panicked gaze. “Sit down, kid. You're freaking me out standing there like that.” 

So Alte eases himself into the armchair across the desk, the same one Kanin had pinned him to when he'd gotten this job. He swallows harshly and fixes his gaze on Kanin's throat. 

“You didn't mean to. You didn't mean to,” Kanin says, like he's trying to convince himself. Alte flinches under the words. “And you came here. Okay. Alright. That's- It's gonna be okay, kid. We're gonna sort this out.” 

“I'm sorry,” Alte whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say. 

“Don't be sorry,” Kanin chastises, and leans a hip against the desk, massaging his right thigh. “Fix this for me. I'm going to tell Jugend I pulled you off his detail.” 

Alte's head jerks up, the surprise slicing through him. 

“You were running a courier job for me, understand?” he iterates sternly, and Alte nods compliantly. “I needed someone I could trust, so I picked you. Wanted to test your mettle. Gave it to you last minute, and your phone died. You didn't have time to text anyone. We clear?” 

“Crystal,” Alte says as firmly as he can. 

“Good.” Kanin looks like he's already regretting his decision. “I'm sticking my neck out for you, kid. You've gotta do something for me now.” 

“Yeah, absolutely,” Alte promises. “Anything.” 

Kanin fixes him with a piercing stare, and Alte knows he’s going to regret that pledge as soon as he sees it. “You’re gonna tell Jugend you can’t read.” 

Alte’s brow pinches, the dissent rising to his lips immediately. 

Kanin kills it with a glower. “Don't say no to me, kid. Else I pull this whole house of cards down on us both. You're going to tell Jugend as soon as he gets back. Right after I tell him why you weren't where you were supposed to be. Do we understand each other?” 

“Yes,” Alte concedes, because it's the best deal he's going to get. Kanin draws himself to his full height, his glare sharpening. 

“Do we _understand_ each other, Sklavesman.” 

“Yes,” he repeats, with more feeling this time. 

Kanin nods. “Good. Get out of my office.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alte rushes, and stumbles out of his chair in his haste to make the door. He hunches his shoulders at Kanin's reprimand, but doesn't look back. 

“Don't call me sir.” 


	6. Pigment

By the time Kanin steps through the door to Jugend’s meeting room, Alte’s come close to throwing up twice. 

Kanin had promised to cover for him, had promised he’d smooth things over with Jugend before Alte had to face him. His blunt reassurances hadn’t done much to calm the vitriol in Alte’s stomach, and sitting on the bench outside the room, without any way of knowing what was being said inside, had reduced Alte to an anxious wreck. 

It isn’t likely to get any better. He still has to confess yet. Alte isn’t the religious type, but now he can sort of see the monumentalism of the act. 

He's not even sure if Jugend’s going to forgive him. There’s a chance he could lose this job, and whilst Alte’s no stranger to short-lived career prospects, he’s not a fan of throwing five months worth of progress out the window. He worked his ass off to get to this point, and right when he’s being considered for a proper, well-paying, interesting position, he fucks it up. 

Alte leans his head back against the wallpaper that probably costs more than his rent and lets out a long exhale. He’d gotten halfway to lighting a cigarette out of sheer habit before the grunt posted at the door had yanked it out of his lips and pocketed it with a glare. That was probably fair, Alte had considered after a stunned moment, Jugend probably didn’t appreciate nicotine stains on his hundred-thousand dollar original artworks. 

Now he was seriously considering the merits of retiring to a bathroom so he could smoke one out the window, but if Kanin came back and found his post abandoned, there’d be hell to pay. 

So Alte satisfies himself with drumming his fingers softly on the bench. He’s pretty sure the grunt is one Phil Collins rendition away from punching his lights out when the door cracks open and Kanin exits onto the landing. 

His expression is unreadable, and Alte’s stomach ties itself into new knots. “You’re up kid.” 

Alte glances once at the door, his brow pinching in concern. “You’re not coming?” 

“You need an escort?” 

“No, si- No.” 

Kanin’s lips twist in something that’s probably meant to be sympathy, but on his stern features it barely reads as consolation. 

Alte picks himself up and edges inside, flinching when the door clicks shut behind him. Fifteen pairs of eyes find him again, and Alte exhales as he starts the arduous trek past the security team. 

Jugend’s in the same lounge room as the one Alte had first been interrogated in, his suit jacket draped over the back of one of the armchairs. In the dark, with nothing but the harsh artificial lights to chase back the gloom, the room looks far more foreboding than it had in the daylight. Jugend’s in the middle of a phone call, pacing slowly back and forth over the white rug, so Alte waits patiently for him to conclude his call. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he’s saying with professional enthusiasm. “Absolutely. Tuesday, two p.m. then? Looking forward to it. And you too. Alright, bye.” 

He ends the call and tosses the mobile onto the armchair, his bright facade fading the instant the device hits the cushion. Jugend turns those cutting hazel eyes on him, and Alte swallows harshly. 

“Kneel,” Jugend instructs, and it flies right over Alte’s head. He blinks at the man, rooted to the spot. 

Jugend points a long finger at the floor between his feet, and Alte pauses all of two seconds before stepping forward and sliding down to his knees. He can’t see his face when his eyes are fixed on the carpet, but Alte gets the distinct impression Jugend’s pleased with his compliance. 

Once he’s actually down there, beneath Jugend, it sets in how humiliating this actually is. Not that he’s really in any position to contest it. He’s not stupid enough to think this isn’t an underhanded punishment for his transgressions, and Alte will take forgiveness where he can get it, no matter how demeaning it is. 

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Jugend talking. “I spoke with Kanin.” 

Alte doesn’t answer. It doesn’t seem like the sort of statement that requires a response. He kneels and keeps his eyes down and waits for Jugend to continue. 

“Well,” he corrects contemplatively, “I spoke. He lied to me. But that’s most of my conversations nowadays, so I can’t say I’m surprised.” 

Alte swallows guiltily and looks up, hoping his contrition is visible in his wordless gaze. Jugend’s staring down at him, fingers tugging at the knot at his neck, pulling apart the tie with nimble precision. 

“He does that sometimes; lies to me. Not because he thinks he can get away with it. Because he thinks he needs to protect me from the alternative.” Jugend tilts his head slightly, scrutinising Alte silently as he slides the tie from his neck and loops it over Alte’s shoulders, pausing there. “He mentioned you had something you wanted to tell me?” 

It’s so distracting, knowing that he has an audience to see his genuflect contrition. Alte can’t shake the gazes of the fifteen or so men sprawled across the lounges behind them, or posted at each window. It makes this all the more demeaning, having to contend with their opinions on Alte’s humiliating punishment. The grunts don’t seem perturbed by it though, despite everything. Maybe this isn’t as unusual as Alte thinks it is. Maybe Jugend likes making people literally beg him for forgiveness more often than Alte is aware of. 

He clears his throat softly and shuffles his weight a bit. “Yes. And I’m sorry that he had to lie to you. That was- is my fault.” 

Jugend hums, and his hands fall to his belt buckle, jolting Alte out of whatever he was going to stay next. Because he can’t think of anything other than how suggestive it looks to have him on his knees while Jugend takes off his belt, and _God_ , he’s not going to make Alte- He’s not expecting him to- 

Jugend snorts softly, and Alte’s gaze snaps back up, his features pale. There’s rich amusement in his gaze. “No, not that,” he says quietly, as if reading Alte’s mind, and then prompts, “Keep going.” 

“I can’t read,” Alte blurts out, and Jugend stills, stunned. 

Alte has to wonder exactly how many people have seen that expression cross his features, how many people have actually seen Jugend not just surprised, but _speechless_. 

He swallows uncomfortably and rushes into his explanation, hoping it might curb the inevitable rush of humiliation that’s brewing in his churning stomach. “I didn’t finish my schooling. I was doing jobs for the gangs in the area, so I wasn’t at school much. Even when I was, it was too difficult to focus on the words. And then I stopped going altogether. So I never learnt how to read. I got by until now. But my phone died, and I need it to use the GPS because I can’t use a directory, and I need the text-to-speech converter too, but I didn’t have either and I’m sorry I was late, I really am, I just didn’t know what to do, and I thought-” 

“Stop,” Jugend orders, and Alte lapses immediately into silence. He’s staring at Alte still, his expression absolutely unreadable. The humiliation starts to crawl up Alte’s throat like bile, and he drags in a shaky breath. 

Jugend glances up, briefly, at their audience, before looking back down at him. 

“Kanin told you to tell me?” he confirms, and Alte nods. 

“I would have told you sooner,” he admits, clenching his hands at his sides. “I just didn’t think you’d… want me. On your detail.” 

Jugend looks taken aback, and Alte feels a little lightheaded at the expressions he’s drawing out of the man tonight. He’s usually so composed, so coy and astute and masqueraded. Alte’s not sure he’s ever seen such vulnerability come from the man before. 

Jugend’s features soften briefly, but it clears before Alte can read anything into it. Fast enough that maybe it was a trick of the light. His tone is gentle when he says, “You thought I’d have you reassigned from my detail because you can’t read?” 

Alte can’t stand to meet that gaze any longer, so he drops his gaze to the carpet between the man's dress shoes and nods. 

Jugend sighs, and abandons his belt buckle. He toes out of his shoes instead, taking a step back from Alte. 

“You’re here to protect me, Alte,” Jugend says, tone firm again. “If you can do that, and anything else Kanin or I need you to do, then that’s the most I’m going to ask of you.” 

It doesn’t feel like a complete resolution, but Alte feels absolved, even partially, anyway. 

“Okay,” Alte says, his throat tight, and watches as Jugend nudges his shoes and socks aside to step back up to him again. He tenses, but doesn’t lift his gaze. 

“Go get Kanin,” he calls over to one of the grunts, and the man folds out of the room. Jugend goes back to sliding his belt out of its loops, and drapes it across Alte’s shoulders with the tie. It’s not until Kanin’s footsteps pad across the timber that Alte remembers he’s on his knees in front of his boss, and maybe that’s not the best place to be when his other boss is in the room. 

He makes to stand, but he’s barely shifted his weight to hook a leg up when Jugend’s fingers wind through his hair and shove him back into a solid kneel. Alte swallows and stills, fixing his gaze at his knees. 

Alte can feel Kanin’s gaze between his shoulder blades, and it doesn’t shift until Jugend’s hand slides away from his scalp. Then Kanin clears his throat softly and asks, “What are we doing?” 

“Cancel the Langham meet up,” Jugend says, his hands going to his lower back to tug the gun nestled there free from its holster. He lays it aside on the mantle, and Alte’s gaze flicks to it once before returning to the carpet. “I’m meeting with Keegan’s brother.” 

“Where?” 

“NASCO.” Jugend yanks his dress shirt out of his slacks, and Alte can sense Kanin’s distaste at his choice in location. 

“Are you trying to set up a playdate with the cops?” 

His tone is deprecating, and disappointed, and Alte _feels_ Jugend recoil defensively at the words. When he steals a glance upwards however, Jugend’s smirking as he fixates on the buttons at his collar. 

“You’re too smart to be asking stupid questions.” 

Kanin doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m too smart not to check that you’ve looked at all your options. I’m your advisor. It’s my job not to get you killed. Or arrested. Both of which you seem to be trying your hardest to achieve.” 

“Kanin,” Jugend says, softer than he has so far tonight. “I know what I’m doing. Thank you for your counsel. But location’s not an issue.” 

“You’ve got a team in mind, then?” 

“Put Moreno’s old team on it,” Jugend instructs. Alte has no clue who Moreno is or was, but this doesn’t seem like a learning opportunity, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

Kanin looks infinitely displeased with that suggestion. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

Jugend pauses then, meets Kanin’s gaze directly. Alte’s smart enough to know not to get between that sort of a fight, so he fixes his gaze stoically on the strip of Jugend’s stomach that’s peeking out where his shirt’s ridden up. 

Kanin must concede, because the moment passes, and Jugend goes back to undoing his cuff links. “Moreno’s team,” he affirms, and holds his hand out for Alte. It takes him a minute to realise Jugend’s waiting for him to take the cuff links he’s removed. Alte stretches out an open palm, feeling the heat pool in his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Kanin says coldly. “Who else?” 

“I’m taking Alte,” Jugend says, and it makes him jolt to be referred to by his first name. And as if he weren’t even in the room. Alte’s not sure whether to be grateful or offended. Not sure he gets to be either. 

“Are you sure that’s a smart idea,” Kanin says slowly, and Alte feels a slice of betrayal flare in him at Kanin’s obvious doubt. 

“I’m going. Get me a grunt suit,” Jugend says firmly. Alte realises belatedly that it’s not his capability they’re calling into question; it’s Jugend’s safety. Then the second part registers with him, and he frowns. 

“You want Tragen to stand in?” Kanin asks, resigned. 

“Yes,” Jugend answers, and finally glances down at Alte. “Go into the en-suite. Get me the box on the sink.” 

Alte slides up to his feet with only the barest wince of pained numbness, and closes his open palm around the cuff links. It’s a short walk to the en-suite, but he still has to pass through the lounge full of grunts, and it’s a fucking feat that he manages not to make eye contact with any of them. 

He leaves the cuff links on the marble counter, because he’s terrified he’ll drop them eventually, and snatches up the small box, starting back for the doorway. 

“Bring a towel,” Jugend calls through to him, and Alte doubles back to grab the first folded one in the cabinet. 

It’s not until he’s back in the lounge and holding the box out to Jugend that he realises he’s still got the belt and the tie draped around his shoulders. Alte kicks himself for not thinking to take them off while he was in the bathroom. But Jugend looks approving beneath his beaming amusement, so Alte thinks maybe he didn’t necessarily make the wrong decision. 

Jugend bypasses the box and takes the towel where it’s hanging off his arm, exchanging it for his shirt, which he shucks with neat efficiency. Then Alte’s standing there, staring at a half-naked Jugend Erdefunfte as he wraps the towel around his shoulders, seemingly unaware of the effect he’s having on Alte’s heart rate. 

It takes him a few moments of dually convincing himself that he’s not dreaming and he really shouldn’t faint, for Alte to notice the scars. 

Alte’s got scars, up and down his arms and ankles, and even some across his back and shoulders. Got a nice neat puckered white kiss under the hinge of his cheekbone, far enough back to almost be hidden by his hairline. He was knife fighting for years before he picked up grunt work with his first mob, so Alte’s seen more scars and more kinds of scars than he knows what to do with. It’s not the sight of the scars that surprises him, but the where. 

Jugend doesn’t have a lot. Alte can count three. A soft graze of pink across his left shoulder where an aborted bullet no doubt intended for his chest has seared the skin tissue straight off. A nick on the back of his elbow that Alte thinks might be a childhood injury; it’s short and undirected and doesn’t have much bite to it. Just old flesh that never found the time to blend back into his complexion. 

The last is layered over Jugend’s throat, carved across the smaller, inner strips of muscle at the base of his neck. Low enough down that it’s easily hidden by a collared shirt. Too far inward to suggest anything other than intimacy. 

That’s the sort of knife wound you get when you’re being held against someone’s chest, the point of the blade hitched against your windpipe. It’s not a quick death. They would have gone for the jugular if they were trying to end him quickly. This is a slow warning, a promise that his lungs will fill with blood long before they can stifle the puncture. 

It’s not centred, and Jugend’s not dead, so Alte can only assume they didn’t get their chance. Still scares the shit out of him that someone managed to get close enough to Jugend Erdefunfte to put a knife in him. 

Then Jugend takes the box from his numb fingertips, and Alte jolts back out of his own head to meet his gaze. 

Kanin’s taken a seat sometime during his staring match, and he drapes his arms over the back of the lounge as he drawls, “What colour this time?” 

Jugend’s taken a sachet and a pair of gloves out of the box, which he tosses back to Alte. “What’s it say?” he asks with an amused glint to his eyes, and rolls on the gloves. 

Alte blinks at Jugend once, then down at the box. The letters swim in front of him. He can make out some Fs and an italicised U, but the rest is too stylized for him to glean much more. Alte swallows uncomfortably, and when he glances up, Jugend’s face flushes with remorse. 

“Fuck, I forgot you can’t read,” he says softly, and reaches back to take the box from him, studying it. Alte can feel the nerves tingling in the back of his skull and down his neck. Jugend doesn’t sound angry, just irritated that he could forget so soon, so Alte doesn’t think he’s fucked up too badly. “Iced Truffle,” he reads, and scoffs as he tosses it over to Kanin. 

“They just keep getting more pretentious, don’t they?” Kanin mutters, and the discomfort shifts off Alte’s shoulders. 

“They’re not even trying,” Jugend agrees lightly, and pours some of the thick liquid from the sachet onto his gloved fingers. “The names aren’t even clever. Who the fuck wants to look like a goddamn frappuccino?” 

“You, apparently,” Kanin quips, and sets the box aside as Jugend swipes his fingers back through his locks. 

He grunts wordlessly at that, lips twisted in disapproval, but he’s too focused on spreading the conditioner evenly to care much. Jugend’s pretty good at it, Alte notes, efficient and practiced. Knows how to avoid getting it on the tips of his ears or on his forehead. Knows to wrap the towel snugly against his neck to avoid it staining his skin. He's done this more than once before. 

It takes a few minutes, and Jugend’s hair looks dark as pitch when he straightens, tossing his head gently. “How’s it look?” 

“Like shit,” Kanin responds before Alte can open his mouth, and Jugend laughs. 

“But not blonde, right?” he inquires, and Kanin nods in concession. Jugend offers him a beaming smile and turns to Alte, beckoning after himself as he starts towards the bathroom. “You’re up, champ.” 

Alte starts, but falls into step. “Up for what?” 

“I need to keep this in for,” Jugend pauses, and glances back at Kanin. “How long?” 

Kanin consults the box. “Fifteen minutes.” 

“For fifteen minutes, so I’m going to need someone who knows how to hold a conversation to keep me company. And I’m going to need help washing it out.” 

“Oh,” Alte says stupidly, and crosses onto the white tile. This feels entirely too informal, considering he’s technically still on exterior detail and hasn’t been approved for Jugend’s inner circle yet. Leaving him alone in a bathroom with Jugend Erdefunfte seems dangerous for one of them. Alte hasn’t worked out which yet. 

Jugend smirks at his brief panic. “You can lose the tie and belt now, if you’d like.” 

“Right,” Alte mumbles, and lays them out on the counter. Jugend slumps down onto the long bench in the shower, and pats the marble beside himself. 

“Take a seat,” he instructs with a curl of a smile, and Alte does as he’s told. He makes the mistake of glancing out the open doorway when he crosses the bathroom, and meets Kanin’s sharp gaze when he does. Alte swallows that astute look down and slides onto the bench beside Jugend, who kicks out his long legs and sighs. 

“Do you always dye your hair?” Alte asks softly when the silence lingers. 

“As often as I can get away with,” Jugend replies, and Alte doesn’t know what any of that means. Jugend flicks a sideways look at him. “You ever dyed your hair?” 

“No.” 

Jugend hums. “You should try it sometime. But you do have a gorgeous natural brunette, so I can see the reluctance. Nothing like breaking in virgin hair though.” 

Alte flushes at that, though he’s not sure why it makes him feel so vulnerable. He wraps his hands around the cold marble to centre himself and says the first thing that pops into his head. “What’s your natural colour?” 

Jugend’s gaze is unreadable, but he smiles coyly, so Alte doesn’t think he’s pushed any marked buttons. “If you stop fucking up the assignments I give you, you might get to find out.” 

Right. His fuck up. With how much he’s been spun around in the last hour, Alte’s not surprised he managed to forget what put him in this room in the first place. 

“That’s not a criticism,” Jugend says lightly. “Just a suggestion. Mistakes happen. Yours was fairly minor, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe a few dust motes went unchecked, but it’s not like you were on personal detail, so no harm done.” 

“Maybe not,” Alte allows, keeping his gaze on his kneecaps. “But the point is to get put on personal detail. So it’s not really a good mark on my record.” 

“Didn’t think you were one to care about records, with not having a birth certificate and all.” 

Alte sighs. He’d known Kanin would parrot their interview-interrogation back up the line, but he didn’t think he’d move so fast. “What are you asking me?” 

“What makes you think I’m asking you a question?” 

“Because you’re Jugend Erdefunfte. You’re brimming with questions,” Alte says sourly, and Jugend chuckles, leaning back into the tile. It’s quiet while he mentally lays out his interrogation tools, and Alte resolves not to fidget as he waits for the inevitable. 

“You ever had a knife put in you?” Jugend asks instead, and Alte answers after only the barest hesitation. 

“Yeah, of course. I used to fight in the rings with them before I upgraded to perimeter work.” Alte lifts his arms into the light and tugs back a sleeve to bare the scars there. “Got a nice collection going.” 

“Not scars,” Jugend clarifies gently, but he does study the white nicks in Alte’s skin with masked interest. “I mean properly stabbed, actually _in_ you.” 

“Yes,” Alte reaffirms evenly, and Jugend’s gaze flickers up to his, impassive. “I’ve had jobs go south before. One guy tried to take out my hamstring. He got the knife in my thigh, but I figured that was better than him nicking my femoral.” 

“You turned into the knife?” 

Alte shrugs. “It took it out of his hands. Gave me the chance to return the favour. Healed up fine too.” 

Jugend hums contemplatively. “You had many jobs go south?” 

“Had enough.” 

“Good. Then you know how to spot one heading there.” 

“You could say that.” 

Jugend nods to himself, turns his wrists forward as he leans back on his palms. “This job on the docks tonight - it’s probably going to go south.” 

_Why take it then?_ Alte wants to ask, but he doesn’t. 

“Have you got a knife on you?” 

Alte shakes his head. “They issued me two Berettas when I signed on.” 

“Pick up a knife before we head out. I assume you’re better with them than guns anyway.” Alte nods, but Jugend doesn’t need him to. The other man huffs a laugh. “You’re gonna be playing my _personal_ human shield tonight, Alte, so keep it handy.” 

The solemn realisation that he’s probably going to have to take a bullet for this guy is lost on Alte. His eyebrows flee north. “You’re putting me on PPD?” 

Jugend shrugs, but it’s carefully composed. “Best way to see you in action is to see you in action. You’re not going to shadow me, though. Not properly. You’re going to shadow me by shadowing Tragen.” 

Alte frowns, tapping his index finger against the cold marble. “Not sure I understand, but it sounds feasible.” 

Jugend smirks, and pushes to his feet. “Feasible is good. I can work with feasible. You’re going to be playing two bits tonight; you’re going to be hustling and shadowing.” 

“I see.” 

“No, you don’t,” Jugend purrs, and lifts the shower head from its clasp on the wall, handing it to him. “But you will.” 

Alte stares blankly at the shower head, unsure what he’s supposed to be doing until Jugend pitches forward and flicks his hair out. Alte leans past him to crank the faucet and starts washing the dye out of the strands. 

He’s only managed to do a first pass before Jugend straightens with a suppressed groan, combing fingers through the locks. Already it looks lighter, more of a light chocolate than that pitch black. Alte watches a trickle of water trace his neck and pool in his collarbone. 

Then Jugend’s hands go to his trousers, and Alte can only bleat once in alarm before they’re shucked down to Jugend’s thighs. The man pauses, glancing at him with a knowing smirk, and Alte feels hotter than a supernova. 

“Don’t get prudish on me now, Sklavesman,” Jugend purrs, and kicks the rest off while Alte forces his muscles to keep him rooted to the spot. He’s not sure, but turning away from a naked mafia don is probably some sort of grave insult rather than a show of decency. 

Jugend reaches out and taps the underside of his elbow, encouraging Alte’s hand - the one holding the shower head - higher. He raises it above his head and focuses on breathing evenly when Jugend steps forward into his personal space and starts scrubbing through his hair, his lidded hazel eyes inches from Alte’s forehead. 

He’s sure he’s getting water all over his shoes and dress slacks, but Alte doesn’t move from his statuesque pose, trying to keep his gaze on the marble backsplash and not on Jugend’s bare torso. It’s a hard fucking task. The man won’t stop moving, inching closer and closer to Alte’s tensed form. 

Then he steps back out of the spray somewhat suddenly, and Alte reaches over to spin the faucet, the steam rising around them. He hangs up the shower head and reaches out to snag a fresh towel from the cabinet, offering it to Jugend. 

He immediately throws it over his head, leaving the rest of him achingly bare as he scrubs into his scalp. Then he shakes his head and meets Alte’s gaze. “How’s it look?” 

Alte makes the stupid, reflexive decision to give him a full once-over sweep, and is much, _much_ redder by the time he returns to the hair Jugend’s obviously showing off. The full, knowing grin that’s plastered on the man’s face is more than enough to let Alte know that hadn’t slipped him by. 

“Looks good,” he forces out, and Jugend scoffs, patting himself down. 

“You flatterer, you,” he purrs, and Alte is spared from the torment of having to craft a witty response to that by Kanin materialising in the doorway, holding a suit. 

“You trying to give the kid a pulmonary?” he asks drily, to which Jugend quips, “Too young for a pulmonary, but thank you for checking.” 

Alte holds out a hand for the suit, and Kanin drapes it carefully over his arm. Doesn’t withdraw from the room except to cross his arms over his chest and lean against the doorway. 

“Car’s out front,” he says, and sweeps them both with a glance as Jugend slides on a suit identical to the one Alte was issued with. “You ready to go?” 

“Get him a knife,” Jugend responds, his tone all business again as he buttons the shirt with swift, sharp motions, working his way up. “Then we’re good to go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now [fanart of this scene](https://meaninglessblah-writes.tumblr.com/post/616240313299861504/mythoughtfulwindow-so-i-just-finished-reading), by the lovely MyThoughtfulWindow!


	7. Predicament

The warehouse is cosied up on the west side of the docks, sheltered from the spray off Calumet by the container ship docked against its wharf. There’s a handful of select containers stacked on the main floor inside, framed by the metal gangways and riveted beams. 

Alte drags down the last few millimetres of his cigarette butt and squints into the south-westerly stormfront, letting the wind whip away his nicotine exhale. There’s a black sedan and an accompanying SUV making their way down the rows of rust-red containers at a fair clip, so Alte takes one last reprieve before stamping out the butt on the concrete. Then he crosses over the gravel to greet their guests. 

He counts twelve figures alighting from the vehicles, which means five of their boys are going to be pulling double their weight if this turns into a shitfight. Alte doesn’t smile when one of the leather-jacket-clad men approaches, just gestures past the open warehouse doors and lets him work out the rest. 

When they’re all milling about on the wear-polished concrete inside the warehouse, Alte tugs the huge metal doors closed behind them and latches them against the tug of the storm, retreating past them to Jugend’s contingent of men. The casual trek gives him a good sweep of the gang’s holsters, and the sort of calibre they’re all packing. 

Alte slides his carton of smokes into his inside jacket pocket, brushing past the knife sheathed against his ribs, if only to confirm that it’s still very much there and accessible. 

Jugend doesn’t look at him as Alte takes up compass behind Tragen’s point, slotting beside Jugend with nary a sideways glance. Tragen gestures broadly, stepping forward as he greets their guests, and in return they send forth a man. He’s got a brown leather jacket that looks five years past worn, which means it must either be sentimental or lucky, and snakeskin shoes that Alte immediately dislikes. 

“Name,” he barks before Tragen can finish his introduction, and Alte sees the tick of a muscle in Jugend’s jaw from the corner of his eye. He keeps his gaze straight ahead and his hands within easy reach of his guns. 

“Tragen Hirsch,” Tragen provides, keeping his hands in perfect posture in front of him. “Jugend Erdefunfte sends me in his stead to receive your apology.” 

“Why couldn’t he come?” Snakeskin demands sharply. 

Tragen offers him a formally terse smile. “Unpremeditated commitments required his attention elsewhere. I will repeat our conversation back to him in its entirety.” 

“Uppity fuck,” Snakeskin growls, and Alte feels the rest of Moreno’s old team shuffle slightly behind him. It’s not so much movement as a tightness, as if they’re all coiling in unison, compacting the air around them. 

Snakeskin doesn’t so much as notice the response, casting a crooked smile over his shoulder at his men. 

“We come all the way out here to meet him and he can’t even take the time to shake my godforsaken hand. Too busy kissing babies and sucking off the commissioner?” 

A trill of laughter washes over the assembled men, and it’s met with deafening silence from behind Alte. He can already feel the tension painting the space between their gangs in swathes and strokes. It makes the air sizzle copper on his tongue, the promise of some sort of fight erupting. 

Tragen doesn’t flinch. “I’ll be sure to repeat that to him,” he says curtly, cutting through the gaggle of chuckling, which dies abruptly when Snakeskin turns back to face him. 

The smile still lingers, but it’s a vicious serpent of a thing now. “You will, will you? I presume you’re gonna want your apology too, right?” 

“Whenever’s convenient.” 

Snakeskin’s features flash with constrained displeasure, but his grin returns as he takes another step forward. Two of his men match pace, the motion procedural as they frame him. “On behalf of the Keegan gang,” he says with an air of mockery. Tragen takes it on the chin. “We want to _formally_ extend our condolences for what happened to Bieder Erdefunfte. Hell of a way to go. And _formally_ assure the Erdefunftes that we had no involvement in his affairs. The Keegans want to express their intent to continue with the deal reached, as planned.” 

Alte can feel Jugend digesting the information beside him, though his expression stays carefully neutral, unassuming. Tragen must be practiced in this bit, because he doesn’t even need to look back at Jugend for confirmation before prompting, “But.” 

“However,” Snakeskin says with grandiosity, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. “We’re renegotiating the schedule. Imports are going to be pushed back a few weeks.” 

“How many weeks?” Tragen cuts in sharply, his voice ringing like a whip in the open space. 

Snakeskin rolls his eyes, like this is tedious. “Three.” 

Tragen’s tone is clipped. “That wasn’t the agreement.” 

“You’ve got cops crawling up your arses,” Snakeskin snarls, waving an absent hand in their direction. “We’re not copping any of your heat. We’d have to be suicidal to move now. The imports are being pulled back by three weeks. You can take that directly up the line to Jugend Erdefunfte and purr it in his ear while you fuck him.” 

Tragen pulls his gun in a swift slip of motion, levelling it at the man. The response from his crew is instantaneous, and Alte’s pulse ratchets up into his skull. The only reason he doesn’t pull out his own firearm to meet their show of force is because no one behind him has flinched. Not a single muscle moved. So Alte swallows hard and fixes his gaze ahead, lets the latent adrenaline narrow his focus to the man a step behind Snakeskin. 

“I’ll be sure to tell him as much,” Tragen says drily, as if there’s not twelve guns pointed directly at him. “If you could keep the insinuations to yourself, that would be appreciated. Especially if you’re serving as Keegan’s official mouthpiece.” 

“It was a joke, dollface,” Snakeskin says, thumbing the safety on his silver pistol absently. He gestures to their team of six with the firearm, before returning it to Tragen. “Just like your manpower here. Don’t start shit you don’t know how to finish.” 

Alte’s not exactly sure what happens. 

There’s the loud reverb of a bullet in a vast, hollow space, and then twelve guns are turning in his direction. He’s already moving by the time the reactionary trigger is pulled. It goes wide, ricocheting off a nearby container with the high-pitched screech of metal, but it opens the floodgates. 

Alte collides with Jugend’s shoulder as his left arm raises, gun-in-hand, and bowls him sideways. He still cops part of the spray of red from the bullet that slides into the collarbone of the man posted behind them. He counteracts his first overstep with a second shorter pivot, wrapping a hand in the back of Jugend’s suit jacket and wrenching him around with Alte as he turns. 

He forces him into a crouch when Alte bows over, propelling him towards the nearest container for cover. “Move!” he barks, ignoring Jugend’s bleat of protest, and skids around the corner with his lungs lodged up in his throat. 

Alte slams his back against the metal, scouting quickly around the corner as Jugend huffs beside him. Tragen’s somehow managed to take cover behind a stack of crates, and is in the process of reloading his firearm. Three of their own are already twitching on the warehouse floor, but the other two seem to have made an impact on Keegan’s crew. Alte counts eight bolting for cover, and notes that Snakeskin is not among them. 

He and Jugend have somehow ended up closest to the surviving portion of Keegan’s gang. If Alte were to crawl to the end of this container and round the corner, he’d be directly in their lateral line of sight. Or they in his. He’d have a clear shot of their backs; good if he’s going for the element of surprise. It puts him solely out in the open for the return fire though, and it puts Jugend the furthest away from immediate help. 

Alte will take whatever strategic boons he can get though. He pulls a Beretta with his dominant hand and reaches into his inner pocket with his left, retrieving his weapon-of-choice. Then he ejects and checks the clip, before glancing down at Jugend. 

“I’m gonna cover fire. Get to Tragen, and then get out,” Alte orders, nudging his head back in the direction of the crate stack. It’s across maybe fifteen feet of open warehouse floor, so Alte’s hoping he can distract Keegan’s men just long enough to give Jugend time to bolt. 

He skirts to the end of the twenty-footer with liquid grace, stealing a glance around the container only to realise he’s exactly parallel to the man who’s leaning around the adjacent container, frantically firing towards Tragen’s cover. There’s another guy beside him, bellowing across the expanse at another set of figures a container length over. Which gives Alte a much better, cleaner line of sight to take the guy out and progress through their ranks before they fully have time to respond. 

Alte folds his knife back, lines up his gun barrel with the guy’s torso as he slides back into a stance. Jugend’s hand flashes out, wrapping around his bicep, and Alte nearly buries his knife in the man’s wrist on reflex, sucking in a sharp breath. Then his lips are brushing Alte’s ear, soft and unbearably ticklish in the midst of a fucking firefight. 

“Keep three of them alive,” he commands, his tone flat, and a visceral part of Alte recoils at the sound. But he nods and shifts his stance until he’s got his knife on the front foot. Then he starts towards the frantic man. 

A very large, rational part of him is reeling at the command, at his acquiescence in agreeing to keep three of these fuckers _alive_ when they have every inclination to shoot him dead the instant he flicks up on their radar. It thrashes at the impossibility of keeping even one of these dumbasses alive in the middle of a motherfucking gunfight in a closed warehouse. 

The other, more level part of him knows that its not nearly as impossible as he’ll be led to believe. It’s not fucking _probable,_ but Jugend doesn’t sound like he’ll take bust for an answer. 

Alte’s just lucky that these two schmucks are busy fending off return fire from Tragen across the bare expanse of the warehouse. He comes up within three feet of the one closest to the edge of the container they’re crouched behind before he even twigs to the fact that Alte’s on top of him. 

His gun swivels, he shouts, and Alte slides behind him and wraps an arm up across his throat, pulling him flush against his chest as he straightens. He gets his knife in the crest of his Adam’s apple, but he can’t back up the motion with a verbal threat before someone a container back leaps up to take him out. 

Alte buries a bullet in his skull, and the delayed return fire pings off the metal beside them. Jugend said three, he thinks viciously, but he didn’t specify _which_ three. 

Alte turns to the man next to the one Alte’s got bailed up as he finally responds to the chaos, gun arm rising. He puts another bullet in that one’s ankle and kicks the gun out of his reach as he crumples with a piercing scream. 

Manhandling the fucker he’s using as a human shield is difficult as fuck with the way he’s thrashing, so Alte peels a thin layer of skin off his throat and snarls into his ear, “Stop fucking resisting, or I’ll pick someone else,” and the man goes limp. 

That’s two. The third is going to be the properly difficult one. 

Alte reaches down to drag the sobbing, delirious man at his feet with him as he beelines for the vantage point of a narrow alley between two containers, shoving him in unceremoniously. He doesn’t need his scores to be offed by ricocheting bullets because their own men are too fucking stupid to hang fire. 

He squeezes off five more shots when two figures try to come to their rescue, and retires back into the alley a little further. Then Alte kicks out his hostage’s knee and shoves him down, knife steady. 

“Stay,” he orders bluntly, and withdraws the blade. 

When the next head appears, Alte waits long enough for him to bare his shoulders - and nearly relieve Alte of an ear with the clip he empties through the gap, too high - before he turns the knife handle-up and flings it across the gap. 

He might be more familiar with knife fighting than his own two feet, but Alte’s not crash hot at throwing them. It glides across the distance and takes a decent chunk out of the guy’s dominant firing arm before spinning off into the darkness. Alte knows his window of opportunity is narrow as it is, so he punches the one at his feet in the throat as he departs and throws himself out into the open. 

The responding gunfire is something else. Alte can’t count how many bullets are concentrated on his skittering path before he flings himself bodily up against the container adjacent to the wounded man and heaves a level, deep breath. There’s a moment where their eyes meet, and the guy’s attention drifts from his bleeding shoulder to fumble for his gun. But by then Alte’s got that limb pinned to the concrete and is digging his thumb into the open wound. 

He knows how much that hurts, his stomach turning uncomfortably at the raw scream that rips up through the man’s throat, but Alte focuses on extracting that gun from his slackened grip and levelling it at the three guys coming up on his six. 

They don’t make it to him. A very concise spray of bullets knocks them all up against the container, and Alte gasps in a shuddering breath as the warehouse falls eerily silent. Footsteps approach, and Alte yanks up the gun, thumbing off the safety as he aligns. 

Jugend’s the one who comes around the corner, a splatter of blood cleaving up his immaculate dress shirt and a gun held loosely in his grip. “Three?” is what he says to Alte as Jugend lowers his own firearm, completely unperturbed by the danger, and Alte nods numbly. 

Jugend slips back away to drag out his other prizes from the container alley, and Alte manhandles the snarling man beneath him to his feet, marching him to an empty clearing in the warehouse. 

The adrenaline’s starting to wane by the time they’ve got all three huddled on the floor, and Alte counts only Jugend and Tragen left amongst the survivors. It saps the air out of him a little at the realisation. 

Tragen falls into parade rest in Jugend’s peripheral as he takes up a slow stalk before the three hostages. Alte stands behind them and focuses on coming down from his adrenaline high as smoothly as he can. Keeps his gun trained on the back of the stabbed man’s head, because that one’s shown he’s willing to do stupid, reckless shit if it’ll give him even a momentary upper hand. 

“What do you all do?” Jugend asks tiredly, his hazel gaze flickering over the three. The one clutching his ankle is still in shock, so it's the middle one - the compliant one - that answers for him. Or, tries to. 

“Eat shit,” the stupid one sneers. “Keegan’s going to skin you alive, you dumb motherfucker. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, shooting up a joint like this? Cops’ll be on us in minutes.” 

Jugend smiles thinly and sharply. “That was the intention.” 

“Why do you want cops sticking their noses in mob business?” 

“Because it gives them a reason to think that what happened at the Astoria has been neatly resolved,” Jugend responds, and Alte looks at him. His gaze is still lacerating the thug, gun hanging lose in his grip. “That the deal’s off and your boss’ apology hasn’t been accepted.” 

“What fucking apology?” the man hisses. “You shot at us. Fuck the apology. That prick Erdefunfte couldn’t even be bothered showing up to hear his own fucking apology. Fuck the deal.” 

Jugend levels the gun at him, and the thug doesn’t flinch, to his credit. “He got your apology loud and clear. Four of his best men are dead, and I’m the one who gets to tell him. So you can understand that I’m a little put off by the shit you pulled. And suggesting that our deal is null? That’s cheap.” 

“Why would we do business with a bunch of crazy fucks like the Erdefunfte when they keep pulling shit like this on us? First they try to drop a building on the boss, and now they order a shootout.” 

“We didn’t drop the building,” Jugend replies evenly, and Alte inhales sharply. “If anything, it looks like _your_ boys were responsible for that one.” 

“Why the fuck would we do that?” the man snaps, and Jugend shoots him. Some of his grey matter - very much wet and red - smears across the pavement between Alte’s dress shoes, and he glances down numbly. 

The other two are visibly shaken by the proximity and the insincerity of the execution. Jugend lowers the gun and turns to the pliant one like nothing has changed. 

“I don’t think Keegan ordered the demolition,” he says evenly, calmly, and Alte can feel his pulse audibly rising in his ears. “It wouldn’t make sense for him to. Wouldn’t be very smart of him to blow our deal out of the water with something so obvious. So I’m going to need a volunteer to run a message back to him, and _he_ can’t walk anymore.” 

The pliant one screams this time, when the one with the busted ankle slumps back to the concrete with the sick, flat crunch of bone. “Please,” he begs immediately, eyes wide. Jugend engages the safety and tucks his gun - two bullets lighter - into the back of his belt, crouching down to the man’s height with a carefully arranged expression. 

“Name.” 

“Martin MacFarlane,” he answers in a sharp, high-pitched rush. His throat sounds rough, the words slightly hoarse, and Alte considers that that’s probably because he dented his windpipe earlier. 

“What do you do, Martin?” 

“Grunt work,” Martin responds numbly. “I run protection, do sweeps.” 

“Do you know what Rodney Keegan looks like?” Martin nods haltingly. “Good. You’re going to give him a message from me, directly. You think you can do that?” 

“Yes. Yes, I can.” 

“Tell him we’ll honour the deal. This was just course correction. And we’ll accept his apology too. He can leave the cops to me; I’ll handle it. But I want the first import to move next week, as scheduled. No delays. Repeat that back to me.” 

Martin does, perfectly, the words scraping out across his injured vocal chords into the terse silence. 

“That’s good, Martin, thank you. If you need a favour after this, or some better work, feel free to contact me.” Jugend gives him a tight smile, and Alte thinks Martin will roll over twice in his grave before he honours that offer. Jugend rises to his feet in a smooth, fluid motion, and glances up at Alte. “Bring the car around, and show Martin to the door.” 

Alte steps forwards to wind a hand around Martin’s bicep, guiding him to his feet because he looks shakier than a newborn fawn, and Alte’s not convinced he can hold his own weight yet. Martin goes quietly, and Alte counts the bodies silently as they make their way through the warehouse. Notes when he passes over the slack faces of Jugend’s former detail. Can’t help but think that they probably never saw it coming. Can’t help but remember how easily Jugend had put down the two men behind them, as easily as he had led Moreno’s old team to their deaths. Can’t help but wonder if he’ll go so quietly. 

Alte swallows hard, and thinks that he probably won’t know until the bullet is kissing his temple. 


	8. Impeachment

Jugend’s the last one into the car. 

Alte sits in the back seat behind Tragen, and glares out the window across the shipping yard as he listens to the rhythmic bleat of the windshield wipers. The storm had whipped up while he was seeing Martin off, and Alte had ducked for the cover of the sedan as soon as the man was beyond sight. Tragen had joined him shortly after, slotting the key into the ignition as he informed him that Jugend was sweeping the bodies. 

Why Jugend was doing a rundown and not Tragen is lost on Alte, but he keeps his mouth shut and resolves to watch the storm break over South Chicago. 

When Jugend slides into the leather seat behind him with a chirped exhale, his suit is nearly drenched through, and his hair is plastered to his forehead. 

“We good?” Tragen asks over his shoulder as Jugend swipes back his locks and slumps back. 

“Yeah, we’re good to go,” Jugend announces, as Tragen rolls out of the lot. Alte keeps his eyes on the tracks of rain carving apart his window, and studiously ignores the pair of them. Jugend, of course, notices his silence. “That went well.” 

“Did it?” Alte bites before he can stop himself, and Jugend’s gaze swivels to fix on him. Alte doesn’t meet it. 

“You did very well,” Jugend says softly, genuinely. It pushes all the wrong buttons for Alte. 

He spins to face Jugend, glaring. “Fifteen men are _dead_ back there. Four of them ours. Why? Because you didn’t appreciate a few crude jokes.” 

Jugend’s expression is calm, and his tone has that flat edge that spooked Alte back in the warehouse. “So what.” 

“So what?” Alte repeats, temper flaring. “They needed to die for that, did they?” 

Jugend’s gaze is lacerating beneath its curiosity. “You’re being awfully vocal.” 

Alte bares his teeth, lets his lip curl back in his disgust. “Are you shitting me? You want to reprimand me for back chatting when you just wasted a dozen men?” 

“You’re paid to protect me,” Jugend reminds him flatly, and Alte’s jaw snaps shut. “Not advise me. That’s still Kanin’s job; don’t forget that.” 

“My apologies, sir,” Alte says tightly, but it’s not disingenuous. He turns his gaze back to the front of the car and fixes it on Tragen’s headrest, unmoving as Jugend studies him. He’s cold and wet and still covered in the grime of the warehouse and the firefight; Alte doesn’t want to be anywhere near this conversation right now. 

The other man sighs, straightening in his seat. “Alright, fine. _What_ exactly is your issue?” 

“Why give me that task?” Alte mutters without looking back. “Why even keep three of them alive if you were just going to kill two.” 

“You tell me,” Jugend returns, and Alte closes his eyes because he really isn’t in the mood for mind games. But he addressed the elephant in the room, so he supposes he should see it through. 

“Because you wanted to test my mettle.” 

Jugend nods shallowly. “And you performed above expectations.” 

Alte glances at him out of the corner of his eye, lips twisted in displeasure and spine ramrod straight. “Above expectations, huh? What was the expectation, then? That I get shot? That I die?” 

“The expectation was that you follow my order through,” Jugend says quietly, tone streaked with latent warning, and Alte swallows down his retort. It’s stiff and uncomfortable in his throat. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles. 

Jugend rakes a hand through his hair slowly, eyes distant and soft, none of his tone evident in them. “You did really well, Alte,” Jugend assures him. “Especially going into that meeting blind. I recognise that that must have been difficult for you, so I mean it when I say thank you. But you need to accept that you’re not always going to get a neat debrief every time I make a move. And certainly not when you’re just guarding me generally. You’re going to have to concede that sometimes you’ll be blind, and we need to trust each other to make the right moves.” 

“You didn’t take cover,” Alte points out tonelessly, and Jugend glances at him sharply. 

“You made sure I did.” 

“You would have caught that bullet if I didn’t,” Alte points out. “You were going to fire.” 

Jugend sighs. “I would have. But I didn’t, because I made the right choice choosing you to guard me.” 

“Are you trained for combat?” Alte asks, because Jugend doesn’t seem like the revealing type, and Alte’s got him on a roll. He’ll take whatever tidbits of useful information he can get if it will help him perform his role better. 

Jugend slumps down into the leather, picking at his shirt sleeve and the sprinkle of red there. “I’ve been using guns since I was nine. My uncle used to take me to the ranges and train me. So yes, in answer to your question, I can use guns. And yes, I’m trained for combat. I can defend myself in a pinch. The point is, it’s not supposed to come to that.” 

“You provoked a firefight in close quarters,” Alte returns, feeling attacked. “You do that again, and I’m not so sure I’ll be as lucky next time.” 

Jugend arches a brow, and Alte knows he’s flipped a switch. “That was luck, was it?” 

Alte flexes his jaw, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Answer the question,” Jugend orders bluntly. “Because if you’re going to tell me my being alive is down to luck, then you’re going to be finding a new job.” 

“No,” Alte manages to get out past the stiffness in his jaw. 

“No?” Jugend prompts fiercely. 

“No, it wasn’t luck, sir,” Alte grits out. Jugend stares at him like he wants an elaboration on that, so Alte sucks a breath in through his teeth. “I knew what I was doing. I responded accordingly to the situation. I’ll do it again.” 

“Good,” Jugend says grimly, and shuffles a bit. “I’m trusting you to keep me alive, Alte. I’d appreciate if you could trust me to reciprocate.” 

Alte swallows down the words climbing up his throat, and when that doesn’t stifle them, he asks, “Why’d you make me keep three of them alive?” 

“You worked that one out already, didn’t you?” Jugend points out tiredly. “To test your mettle.” 

“Humour me.” 

Jugend sighs, pursing his lips. “Shock and awe. Fear begets compliance, and violence begets fear. It was a strategic move.” 

“You bet my life on a cheap parlour trick.” Alte doesn’t cross his arms over his chest, because that would be childish, but his hands do clench into fists at his sides. “Just to get yourself a faithful messenger.” 

“It was an important message,” Jugend replies, but there’s no bite to it. His gaze flashes over Alte’s terse form. “Why do you think I needed to send that message?” 

He’d worked it out while he had been waiting on Jugend to sweep down the corpses of Moreno’s old team. Alte’s the sort to act first and question later; it’s what makes him a good right hand man. So sometimes he’s a bit slower on the uptake, but he always arrives eventually. 

“It pins the cops on Keegan for the bombing, and takes their eyes off the import deal that they don’t think is going to be honoured. Two birds, one stone,” Alte says bitterly. 

“You’re assuming there’s a purpose to the larger meeting,” Jugend points out. 

“There’s always a purpose,” Alte retorts, and a latent part of him considers whether pushing Jugend Erdefunfte’s buttons is really the best thing to be doing right now, considering he’s still got a man’s brain matter on his shoes. “You always make sure there’s a purpose.” 

Jugend doesn’t say anything to that, but he does straighten up in his seat, his gaze sliding off Alte. “Your mistake is in thinking there’s only two birds, Alte.” 

His head snaps around on reflex, staring Jugend down as the man stares studiously out the window, a reflection of Alte’s earlier petulance. “Trust, wasn’t it?” he reminds Jugend quietly, and the other man huffs a half-hearted laugh. 

“Trust it was,” Jugend agrees, and fixes him with hazel eyes so tumultuous that Alte wonders if a maelstrom could even hold up to the destruction that gaze promises. “And you don’t trust me yet. So no, you don’t get to know anything more, until you can _demonstrate_ your loyalty. Is that understood?” 

Alte wants to say that trust wasn’t part of the bargain that he’d struck with Kanin that night in the office. That trust isn’t a calling card in their profession. That trust is what gets expendable people like Alte _killed_. 

Instead he nods once and answers curtly, “Thoroughly. Sir.” 


	9. Beguilement

Jugend doesn’t ask Alte to do anything else impossible over the next half-week. In fact, he doesn’t do anything particularly brash after the warehouse fiasco, and Alte doesn’t look the gift horse in the mouth. 

He shows up to work Tuesday in his a-few-days-off-new suit with a freshly loaded clip and stands dutifully behind Jugend at the breakfast table while his oldest sister chews him out. Kanin tries not to look vindicated behind Jugend’s left shoulder. 

Petra, the eldest of the recent Erdefunfte generation, eventually slumps into the seat opposite Jugend, and he finally looks up at her over his unbelievably ordinary muesli. Alte’s not sure why he thought mafia bosses would have some wild buffet of breakfast options, but the small spread of fruit and yoghurt seems inadequate somehow. 

“What are we doing about Jamesson?” she asks, massaging her temple. 

“You mean, besides the tangents?” Jugend asks mildly, and Petra looks tired. 

“Jugend,” she says warningly, and he chases a raspberry around the rim of his bowl. 

“One of our hollow corporations just partnered with the commissioner over a new campaign to fund crisis aversion seminars for officers dealing with mentally and emotionally unstable offenders,” Jugend rattles off like a clean press wrap. Petra lifts her brow to stare at him. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she mutters, a slow heat building in her gaze. “Tell me Mom’s name isn’t on the board.” 

“It absolutely is,” Jugend answers lightly without looking up. 

“Jugend,” Petra snaps. 

“Petra,” Jugend replies mockingly. 

“You put mom’s name forward on a hollow corp and then handed it to the cops on a silver platter?” 

Jugend lifts his gaze, looking broadly exasperated. “I swear you think I’m just some pretty face around here. It’s like I went and got that MBA for nothing.” 

“You don’t have an MBA,” she growls. 

“You’re not wrong,” Jugend points out, and then rolls his eyes at her irritation. “It’s a subsidiary of a larger hollow corp behind a strawman corp behind another strawman corp behind- You know what, do you know how matryoshka dolls work?” 

“Fuck you,” Petra offers absently, but she sounds less frustrated. Jugend puts down his spoon and surveys her curiously. 

“How’s Beide?” he asks gently. 

“Screaming,” Petra answers coldly, and goes back to massaging her temples. “Constantly.” 

“You know you can hire help for that, right?” 

“I’m not putting my daughter in the hands of a nanny,” Petra answers. “I’d be practically gift-wrapping her for the Marolleni’s. I’d be _asking_ them to take a stab at her. No pun intended.” 

Jugend sighs. “You know mom didn’t raise us on her hip while she directed table meetings, right? You’re allowed to take some time, Petra.” 

“Mom’s Mom,” Petra says, and Jugend seems to agree that that speaks for itself. “If she can juggle five kids and head a clan, then I can handle one restless baby. Surely.” 

“Surely,” Jugend repeats softly, but there’s a genuineness there that Alte thinks is as close as he gets to empathetic. He straightens almost immediately, the moment washing away, and Alte nearly rolls his eyes at the purposeful shift. “I’m meeting with Daymont today.” 

Petra frowns, but doesn’t look up from the grains of wood in the table. “Mayor Daymont?” 

“The one and only,” Jugend confirms. “She’s very eager to back the new campaign. It’s just what we need to get the pigs to toe the fucking line and stop threatening Mom. And it gives our new mayor a chance to soapbox on some constituent rights.” 

Petra doesn’t look pleased exactly, but she does rise from the table, and Jugend sits back in his chair. She beckons for her coat, and her second disappears swiftly to retrieve it. “Stop getting into bed with politicians,” she advises pointedly, and Jugend rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about your martyr streak; you’re going to land yourself in a slowly boiling pot if you’re not careful.” 

“The cops can’t touch me,” Jugend says with definite finality. “Both literally and politically. I’d like to see them fucking try.” 

“Keep your ego in check,” Petra says, and shrugs into the coat her second offers. 

She sweeps out of the room then, taking her entourage with her, and leaving Kanin to slide into the end seat with a relieved sigh. He massages his knee and leans an elbow on the table, facing Jugend. 

“When’d you organise the meeting with Daymont?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound angry. Just curious. Alte keeps his post at Jugend’s right elbow. 

“Night of the Keegan debacle,” Jugend answers, polishing off his bowl, and Kanin looks like he doesn’t believe that Jugend believes it was ever truly a debacle. 

“You going to tell me when you book these things, or am I supposed to go through your new secretary?” 

Jugend smiles wryly. “He doesn’t keep my appointment book.” 

Alte realises they’re talking about him, and glares at the opposite wall. Jugend notices, and chuckles. 

“You’re doing fine, Alte,” he says gently. “Trust me, you don’t want to be my secretary anyway. I’m terrible at keeping appointments. Speaking of which, I’m blowing off my fitting,” he adds, turning to Kanin. “Can you reschedule it to Thursday?” 

“Fuck you,” Kanin offers, but its quiet and - if Alte had to put money on it - just barely fond. He pushes up from the table. “You can do Wednesday night and no later.” 

Jugend rises from the table too, turning to beam at Alte. “We’ve got a lunch date at two at Spiaggia, and I have the rest of the morning to pick out a very expensive bottle of cabernet. Do you day drink?” 

Alte blinks at him. “No.” 

“Then you’re in for a great new experience,” Jugend advises warmly, and slides into his suit jacket. 

They spend several hours in a boutique wine selector’s store in Goose Island, wherein Jugend spends more time talking and taste-testing than he does selecting a bottle, and Alte wanders the shelves and tries to see if he can work out which ones are Italian based solely on how many S’s appear in the name. 

In the end, Jugend buys two wines: one Matthiasson because it ‘sends the right message’, and one Passopisciaro, which Alte notes has three S’s in its name. They’re wrapped immaculately, and then Alte has the pleasure of sitting impassively at a tiny table while Jugend and Daymont chat about absolutely nothing of interest and pick apart meals that could fit in Alte’s palm. The only bit of fun is when one of the mayor’s guards pats Alte down at the door without finding the guns that Alte had ditched in the car on their way up, and Alte gets to smile at him and picture how many ways he could break the guy’s bruising fingers. 

When it's all done and Jugend’s forged a nice neat path forward for the clan through the next decade of political leadership, they bid the mayor adieu and step out into the afternoon sun. It's not sinking yet, but the days are getting markedly shorter. 

Jugend runs a hand through his hair, smiling a little self-congratulatory smile. Like he’s just been given a stellar report card and can't wait to get home to show his mother. 

“We're going back to Goose,” he tells their entourage, and that must mean something to them because they all peel off bar the driver, who opens the driver’s side door for Jugend to slip into. 

Alte takes the front passenger seat with a reserved look. “I’m assuming that's the operative we, not the royal.” 

“You would be correct,” Jugend purrs, and starts the engine. 

It’s a short ride back over to Goose Island. All these neighbourhoods aren’t that far apart, Alte’s quickly learning. Jugend rolls into a parking garage beneath a building that has to have a half-dozen zeros after the dollar sign and swings into a designated spot. 

“You haven’t been here before, have you?” Jugend asks as he swings the door closed and heads for the elevator. 

“Not yet,” Alte allows, and watches him swipe a key fob as he presses the button for the fourth floor. “You’ve got the penthouse?” 

“I’ve got roof access,” Jugend concedes, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Does that surprise you?” 

Alte shrugs. Jugend doesn’t press any farther. 

The elevator opens onto a small sitting area, with two numbered doors at either end. Jugend heads for the rightmost one, sliding the key into the lock and pushing inside. If the lobby decor is anything to go off, Alte muses, this meeting house is going to be just as extravagant as all the others he’s seen. 

When he steps inside though, Alte’s a little blindsided. It’s minimalist to a fault, everything cast in timber and chrome and granite. Jugend flicks the lock on the door behind him, and kicks his shoes off while Alte looks around, dumbfounded. 

There’s a lowset walkway that extends from the front door all the way down to the balcony door, carving up the room in a neat timbered slice. The rest of the room sits a foot-and-a-half higher, sprawling out to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that look out onto the balcony at the front of the building. There’s a compact dining table closest to Alte, and two huge lounges further down, one silvered grey cotton and the other white leather. 

The kitchen is a huge granite monolith that runs the length of the other wall, backless stools pushed up to its breakfast counter. Jugend steps up into the room, and Alte follows after a moment of hesitation. 

There’s an archway along the same wall of the front door, and Alte can see that there’s bedrooms in its depths when he glances into it. The decor looks wholly… domestic. 

“The first bedroom on the left is the spare,” Jugend’s saying as he empties his pockets onto the silver-flecked counter. “You can take it. Master’s at the end of the hall, that’s where I’m set up.” 

Alte frowns. “Is this a meeting house?” 

Jugend casts him a brief glance, a smile on his lips. “No, this is my personal residence. Though I do sometimes host, it’s rare.” 

“Oh,” Alte says, and wanders around the room, admiring the vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. “It’s nice.” 

“Thank you,” Jugend says dryly. 

“I didn’t mean,” Alte begins, and makes a harsh noise in the back of his throat. “Did you choose it?” he asks instead. 

“It’s one of the few things I didn’t inherit,” Jugend replies, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter as Alte comes up to inspect the facilities. There’s a coffee machine on the other benchtop, tucked in beside the stovetop. “But I paid someone else to fill it with furniture, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“So what are we doing here?” Alte asks, and turns on the tile to face Jugend. “I can’t imagine you’re taking a day off.” 

Jugend gives him a wry smile. “You’re very talkative today. Have I got you in a good mood?” 

Alte shrugs. “Depends how you answer my question.” 

Jugend pushes off the counter and approaches a study nook nestled in the corner window of the balcony. “I’ve got to do some drafting.” 

“Drafting?” Alte interjects curiously, and Jugend casts him a chastising look. Alte sighs and tugs open the fridge doors. “Right, trust. Understood. You know, I’m beginning to equate ‘trust’ with ‘no questions’.” 

“Blind trust _is_ a form of trust,” Jugend quips with a bright smile, and transfers the laptop from the nook to the kitchen counter, settling into a stool. He flips it open and taps in a password that Alte can’t see. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” 

Jugend glances up, frowns, and then checks his watch. “Huh. It’s five. Sure, I could eat.” 

“There’s not an awful lot in here,” Alte points out with a touch of concern, eyeing the untouched, wilting lettuce and the half-carton of milk. 

Jugend shrugs without breaking from the screen. “I’m not here all that often. I usually order in catering. Check the second drawer at the end,” he adds, and pats the counter absently with his right hand. 

Alte retrieves the stack of menus from the drawer, leafing through them until he finds the catering. It’s the third from the top, beneath a Malay takeaway joint and an Italian restaurant that Alte’s pretty sure doesn’t usually deliver. The catering spread is pretty high brow, and it doesn’t resolve the issue of Jugend’s empty fridge. 

“Is there something you want in particular?” Alte asks aloud. 

Jugend grunts something non-committal, fixated on his work. So Alte discards the catering menu in favour of the bright grocer menu beneath it that’s filled front to back with enticing pictures. Then he copies the number over into his cell, pins it between his shoulder and his ear, and orders a whole plethora of essential whole foods. 

The bubbly attendant at the other end of the line informs him that he can expect delivery in the next hour, so Alte thanks her and hangs up. Then he crosses his arms and surveys Jugend, who hasn’t moved for the whole conversation. Alte’s not even convinced he’s processed anything outside the confines of that screen. 

After a long minute of stagnant silence, Alte asks, “Is there something you need me to do while you work, or…?” 

“You can do whatever you want,” Jugend dismisses, waving an absent hand. 

Alte scoffs. “As long as I don’t leave, right?” 

Jugend doesn’t answer, consumed with his work, so Alte sighs and starts exploring. Jugend’s apartment is one of the most high-end three-bedders Alte’s seen in a long while. 

His bedroom’s spacious, and Alte flops back onto the queen mattress just to test its quality, and almost questions why he needs to get back up. It’s ridiculously luxurious, and the afternoon light that’s filtering through the sheer curtains casts the room in a cosy, inviting glow. 

Alte digs through the wall-length wardrobe, finding several standard suits in various sizes. There’s a section of suits at the end that have some slight variation to them, but are all in the same size, so Alte can only assume that they must be Kanin’s. The thought that he sleeps in Jugend’s apartment enough to have a permanent collection of suits is foreign to Alte, but it doesn’t defy rationality. In the last months, Alte’s tailored his living schedule to slot neatly alongside Jugend’s; it would make sense that Kanin goes where Jugend goes, if he was the man’s shadow before Alte. 

Alte shucks his tie and leaves it strewn across the immaculate bedcovers, if only to prove to himself that this room is his. He ditches the jacket across the back of a reading chair in the corner and loosens a few buttons, before making one last sweep of the room and heading back out to the living area. 

Jugend is pretty quickly taking on the mannerisms of Rodin’s Thinker, but Alte can see that he’s retrieved the power pack sometime in the brief interlude. There’s a document open on his screen with enough paragraphs that it has Alte’s head spinning, and he can’t even make heads or tails of it. 

Jugend notices his snooping, and frowns, tilting the screen a little protectively. Alte snorts before he can voice his discomfort, sliding his hands into his pockets as he says, “Can’t read, remember? Don’t worry; your secrets are safe with me.” 

Remorse flits across Jugend’s features, and his shoulders fall back into a more amicable line. “Right,” he says a little tightly, before adding, “Sorry. Forgot, again.” 

There’s a frown to accompany that last bit, and Alte chuckles, walking the length of the room to inspect the shelves of collector’s edition novels on the bookshelf next to the nook. None of them look like cookbooks, and several of them look leatherbound, so Alte can only expect that they’re brimming with text cover-to-cover. 

“You got anything to do in this place other than read books?” he calls back. Jugend looks up somewhat sheepishly. 

“Not exactly. Like I said, I don’t host much.” 

“What about a deck of cards?” Alte enquires, and Jugend gestures to the sideboard next to the dining table. He finds a pack in the third drawer down. He’s halfway through a game of solitaire when the doorbell rings, and Jugend shows him how to buzz someone up from the front lobby between stretching out his arms. 

Alte pays the delivery guy in cash, with a generous tip because he’d lugged a whole flat-pack crate of supplies up the elevator. He sees the guy off at the elevator bank and comes back to find Jugend picking curiously through his purchases. 

“I thought you were ordering in catering,” he says when Alte approaches. “Didn’t think you meant you’d cook from scratch.” 

Alte shrugs. “I like cooking. And it gives me something to do around here.” 

Jugend pushes aside an eggplant and eyes the row of jarred spices beneath with a crooked brow. “You got something in mind?” 

“Pasta,” Alte replies, and starts unpacking. “Spaghetti specifically. But with steak, not meatballs.” 

Jugend huffs a laugh and returns to his perch, though he casts the occasional glance Alte’s way as he sets aside his ingredients. “If you say so.” 

It keeps him busy for the next hour, and Jugend doesn’t hesitate to shift his laptop aside when Alte plates up the food at the kitchen counter. They eat mostly in silence, but Jugend does thank him for the meal when he cleans up, so Alte considers that some sort of success. 

He finishes his game of solitaire and takes his damn sweet time in the huge shower because he figures Jugend will probably wrap things up soon and he won’t have to play watchdog for much more of the evening. Alte figures he’ll just go to bed when Jugend does, or when someone comes to relieve him of babysitting duty, and begins setting up a new game of solitaire. 

It turns out Jugend doesn’t sleep when he’s working. The man rotates through a meticulous schedule of block-typing interspersed with meagre coffee and bathroom breaks that would put a finals week student to shame. Alte works out sometime after one a.m. that there’s not going to be a change of the guard, and resigns himself to shadowing him. 

Alte’s not sure if he’s supposed to stay awake for the whole time Jugend’s conscious, or if he’s allowed to shave a few hours off his sleep debt to keep himself on his A-game. He doesn’t really get the choice, regardless, because he phones it in when he catches himself dozing against the leather couch for the third time in twenty minutes. 

He pushes to his feet and rolls out the crick in his neck, glancing over at Jugend’s base camp. “You good?” he calls, and when that doesn’t get a response, he trudges over and waves a hand in Jugend’s vicinity. 

The man jolts out of his staring contest with the computer screen and frowns up at him, but there’s no anger there. “What?” 

“I’m gonna catch some Z’s,” Alte says, and suppresses a yawn. “If that's okay with you. Will you be good? Do you need anything from me?” 

Jugend’s frown deepens a bit, but he shakes his head. Alte can already see he’s distracted, his concentration pulled back to the dormant screen. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” 

Alte hides his smirk. He’s pretty sure Jugend wouldn’t slip up enough to thank him if he weren’t sleep deprived and running on residual coffee dregs. 

“I’ll make you breakfast when I get up,” he promises, but Jugend’s turned back to the screen, hands skating over the keyboard. Alte strips down in his room, sets an alarm for three hours and climbs under the unbelievably downy quilt. 

He rolls out of bed at five a.m. to trudge over to the toilet, and stumbles to a halt in the hallway afterwards, because Jugend’s _still_ sitting at the kitchen counter, pretzelled into a stupidly convoluted position to avoid the inevitable aches that come with sitting on a stool for north of ten hours. 

Alte frowns, and glares, and wanders over to see what the fuck he could be doing that needs him to be awake at five a.m. The blocks of text don’t rearrange themselves into anything that could enlighten him, but Jugend is propped up on one elbow as he reads, blinking slowly, so it can’t be all that enthralling. His eyes are red and bloodshot, and Alte makes an executive decision that will probably get his pay docked. 

Jugend jerks into complete wakefulness when he snaps the laptop shut, a glower rising behind his hazel lenses. Alte tries to channel Kanin and orders, “Go to bed.” 

Jugend blinks at him, and it’s a little lopsided. He opens his mouth, closes it, thinks, and then says, “I own you.” 

“Cute,” Alte responds, and spins the laptop around, shoving it across the bench so Jugend will have to walk around the counter to get it. “It’s five a.m.” 

“Is it?” Jugend says mildly, and stretches. 

“Go to bed,” Alte repeats. 

“I’m older than you, aren’t I?” Jugend tries with a coy smile, and Alte doesn’t buy it. He’s been the eldest sibling for seventeen long, tiring years. And he knows for a fact that Jugend is the baby of the family; he’s been dealing with Jugend’s type for long enough to know a baseless argument when he sees one. 

“If you want me to cook breakfast without frying my fingers off, I’m gonna need more than three hours shuteye,” Alte informs him. “And I don’t get to sleep until you do.” 

“That sounds like a flawed argument,” Jugend points out. “Shouldn’t you be guarding when I _am_ asleep, since that’s when I’m most vulnerable?” 

“Did you plan a replacement?” 

Jugend pauses. “No,” he says eventually. 

“That’s because I am the replacement,” Alte says calmly. “And if you don’t go the fuck to bed, I’m calling Kanin in, and he can take second speaker in this debate.” 

Jugend watches him for a long moment, wherein Alte tries to discern if the bags under Jugend’s eyes are closer to a washed out mauve or lilac and studiously does not think about the fact that he’s essentially marshaling one of the most powerful men in the city to bed. 

“You’re cute when you’re grumpy,” Jugend says finally, and slides off the stool before Alte can string enough conscious brain cells together to respond to that. 

In the end, he double checks the locks on the front door and the balcony, and trudges back to bed. Leaves his door open because Alte figures he’ll probably be able to hear someone moving past his room on their way to assassinate Jugend, and then promptly falls into a sleep deep enough to rival a tranquilised horse. 


	10. Sentiment

Jugend wakes sometime after ten, stumbling blearily into the living room as he runs a hand up through mussed hair. Alte’s leaning back against the far counter, polishing off his caffeinated mug, so he reaches up to snag a cup and thrusts it under the spout of the percolator, punching the button. 

Jugend hums his approval as he slumps into the middle stool and props his elbows up on the bench top. “You sleep well?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. 

Alte smirks and throws back the last dregs. “Got another three hours.” 

“Enough for me to hold you to that breakfast?” Jugend asks, and Alte chuckles. Pushes off to approach the sink and snap on the faucet. 

“Yeah, sure. Drink your coffee first though.” 

He does without any protest, sculling most of it the instant it hits the granite. Alte bustles him back to his room to get changed while he preps breakfast, and there’s a stack of blueberry pancakes waiting for him by the time he returns, looking much more put-together. 

He’s in a suit again, but so is Alte, so it barely strikes him as odd anymore. He joins Jugend at the counter to chew through their shared meal, and then Jugend reaches for his laptop and instructs Alte to go take a shower. 

When he gets back, buttoning his dress shirt with quick, familiar motions, the laptop is closed and Jugend’s not alone. 

There are four men in the living room, milling about between the counter that Jugend’s leaned back against and the dining table. Three of them are dressed in suits like Alte’s, so he assumes they’re guard for the fourth man. 

He’s dressed much more regally, in a form-fitting smoked grey suit and waistcoat. A black trenchcoat hangs around his shoulders, and he’s got the sort of posture that would be complemented by a cosmetic cane. Salt and pepper hair is gelled back over his scalp, and a meticulously styled beard rests below a firm set jaw and piercing hazel eyes. 

Alte stutters to a halt, because he _knows_ this man, even if he’s only seen him in passing before. Redlich Erdefunfte carries a reputation with him, so much more expansive than the one Bieder had flaunted. 

Jugend pushes off the counter, straightening, and Alte falls into line beside him, gaze skimming the other suits in the room. They’re flanking Redlich, but the one closest to the kitchen counter steps forward as Jugend steps away, boxing them in. Alte doesn’t like the idea that they’re being corralled. 

And this room feels like it’s one breath away from a fistfight. There’s nothing in their outward appearance to suggest violence, but there’s a razor sharp cord thrumming between Jugend and Redlich, vibrating in the air. 

Alte stops just a half-step behind Jugend when he comes to a halt in front of Redlich, folding his hands into the small of his back to show he’s unarmed. Nonviolent. Alte’s hand goes to his own pocket, to wrap around his knife. 

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Jugend says brightly, like they’re in the middle of a conversation, “but you have three men and I have only one.” 

He casts around, making a show of counting them. The suits don’t flinch, and Redlich’s gaze doesn’t part from Jugend. 

An easy smirk comes over Jugend’s lips, but there’s a hard bluntness behind his eyes that tightens Alte’s stomach. “Am I supposed to read that as a threat?” 

Alte questions again why he was ever so eager to be assigned to such a reckless asshole. He likes Jugend’s bravado, he does, but that’s mostly because he can back it up most times. Pissing off the former head of the Erdefunfte clan seems like a fool’s errand to Alte. And it’s almost guaranteed to get one of them killed.

Redlich looks just as unimpressed with that statement, exhaling shortly through his crooked nose. Alte watches the patriarch’s hand twitch into his inside coat pocket, sees the sleek curve of gunmetal silver, and moves on instinct. 

The knife makes a soft _snick_ when it comes loose from its casing, and Alte steps into Jugend’s path, forcing him to take a reflexive step back as the younger aligns the edge of the blade with the neatly styled underside of Redlich’s beard, drawing him to a sharp halt. 

The response is instantaneous. Alte feels the blunt muzzles of three pistols nudge up against him, one at each of his temples and one at the back of his neck. He stills, doesn’t step any further into Redlich’s space, and watches when the man gently withdraws his hand, letting it fall loose and empty at his side. Alte exhales long and steady through his nose, unaware that he’d been holding his breath. 

Redlich looks down his crooked nose at Alte, his hazel eyes piercing. “Nephew,” he says, low and streaked with cold warning, his gaze flicking back up to Jugend. “Call off your dog.” 

Alte inhales, his grip shifting ever so slightly on the knife. The gun at his left temple presses in with a vengeance, threatening to tear skin. 

“His name’s Alte,” Jugend replies softly, and steps leisurely around Redlich’s three men, as close to his uncle as he can get with a body in the way. 

The three guards’ gazes follow him, but threatening him would involve moving a gun off Alte, and he can see them silently assessing which threat requires the most force, undecided. A laugh bubbles in Alte’s chest and dies before it reaches his throat. 

Jugend’s lips twist into a thin smile, his fingers sliding into his trouser pockets in a manner which is infinitely less threatening than Redlich’s had been. “I’m keeping him.” 

Redlich’s gaze flashes back to Alte, assessing. “Put it down, boy.” 

“I don’t answer to you,” Alte replies quietly, unwavering. 

“Alte,” Jugend says gently, and he steps away instantly, folding back the knife. Redlich exhales irritably through his nose, the situation diffusing as Alte withdraws. 

Redlich straightens his coat slightly and says in a clipped tone, “Murphy.” 

The guard on Alte’s left pistol whips him across the temple, and Alte staggers with a bitten-off shout. His skull is ringing with the blow, but he has enough reflexes still engaged to stick his knife in the man’s wrist when it returns on a backhand. It goes the whole way through, the crook of his thumb stopping the man’s hand short of aligning the muzzle with his skull as Alte collapses to one knee. 

“Stand down!” Redlich barks, his bellow thundering in Alte’s ears as he sways dazedly on the timber, grip shaking around the knife. Or maybe the gunman is shaking, desperate to keep his grip on the gun steady. It’s a wonder he hadn’t accidentally pulled the trigger when Alte had severed the collection of nerves in his wrist. 

Or maybe Alte wasn’t that lucky and that’s probably what safety switches are for, Alte muses belatedly, dropping from the handle of the knife to brace himself on the timber. The room seems determined to throw itself sideways, but Alte has a fucking job to do here, and he can’t do it when he’s kneeling on the floor. 

He pushes to his feet, balance tilting dangerously as he slides one of his Berettas from the holster in his lower back. Keeps it at his side - a warning, for now - and backs up until he’s between Jugend and the three uninjured men. 

Redlich watches him silently, his jaw tight and displeased beneath his stiff beard. “Rueger,” he barks, startling them all. “Take Murphy back to the car and see to his wrist.” 

The man moves instantly, hooking his firearm back into its holster against his ribs and reaching out to relieve his comrade of the gun that’s shaking in his bloodied grip. Then he ushers them out of the apartment, closing the door behind them as the remaining four men exchange terse glances. 

“Does that put you more at ease?” Redlich asks lowly, once the echo has dissipated. 

“It’s certainly more even,” Jugend concedes, and Alte gets the distinct impression that he’s pleased. Maybe even impressed. He gestures to the lounge. “Shall we sit?” 

Redlich takes the armchair, his guard taking up parade rest behind his right elbow. Jugend takes the opposite lounge, and Alte notices the very slight flick of his wrist to the cushion next to him that indicates where he should take his seat. Redlich analyses that decision, but only motions for his man to holster his weapon, and Alte does the same. 

Jugend meets his gaze evenly, none of that hard edge to it. “Can I get you a drink, uncle? Some refreshments?” 

“You’re going to hand the Southeast corner back to Petra,” Redlich says bluntly, and Jugend blinks. 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because I’m going to let you finish playing out whatever this little game of yours is. In return, you’re going to stop compromising the imports.” 

Jugend’s smile is gone, but his face is clear, calm. “I haven’t compromised the imports.” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” Redlich snaps flatly, that hard tone streaking through his words again, and Jugend recoils slightly. Alte clenches his jaw and flexes his fingers in his lap. “I built this clan from the ground up, and if you think I’m going to turn a blind eye to the nonsense you’re pulling, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not as forgiving as your mother.” 

“My mother hasn’t had a say in what I do for quite a while now,” Jugend replies coolly, countering that flash of heat with sharp ice. His fingers twitch where they’re folded, the only minute indication of his irritation. “And once again; I haven’t compromised the imports, or the deal with Keegan, or even the clan. So I’ll ask you this: what ‘nonsense’ exactly _do_ you have an issue with me pulling?” 

Redlich’s lips turn downwards in a restrained frown. His tone is still low, but not as heated. “This is a very fine line you’re walking, nephew.” 

“ _What_ specifically do you have an issue with?” Jugend repeats slowly and bluntly. Then he blinks, straightening. “I fixed the problem with the Astoria. I secured the deal with Keegan, and I’ve kept them busy with the police so they don’t have the time to renegotiate. I took the cops off _our_ backs so that the imports aren’t compromised. I’ve laid the groundwork for a new and bountiful relationship with our new mayor, and I’ve given us a politically-charged brand to hide behind, should the CPD decide they want to take another shot at my mother - _your_ sister.” He pauses, hazel eyes flat and hard as bedrock. “But please tell me, uncle, what have I done to disrupt your- _her_ perfect clan? I’ll be sure to rectify it immediately.” 

Redlich doesn’t say anything for a long while. Long enough that Alte unfolds his hands back to his thighs to give him better access if he has to pull a gun again. 

The old patriarch straightens in his seat, tilting his chin up slightly as he stares down his nose at Jugend. His words are soft and firm when he orders, “Let it die, Jugend.” 

Jugend barks a sharp, strangled laugh. “Let _what_ die, uncle? What is there to let die?” 

The muscle in Redlich’s forehead flexes when he clenches his jaw, but he exhales through his nose and turns his gaze to Alte. “I’m sure you have no idea what he’s doing here,” he says calmly, and his tone suggests he doesn’t intend to offend. “But if you value your life at all, you should ask what happened to your predecessors.” 

“Kanin’s not dead,” Jugend bites flatly, harshly. There’s a warning there that Alte doesn’t want to dissect, and Redlich’s gaze doesn’t part from his, ignoring his nephew entirely. 

“Moreno is though,” Redlich points out gently. “You seem like a good, loyal man. You remind me of him,” he adds, straightening, and Alte can feel Jugend’s rage radiating off him like a blast wave, quiet and barely contained. “I’d hate to see you travel his path.” 

“Uncle,” Jugend says, and Redlich’s gaze finally lifts to him. 

“Wrap it up, Jugend,” he orders coldly. “All of it. There’s too much at stake for me to let you play out this little revenge fantasy much further. I want it done with and you focused on the clan again within two weeks. Do we understand each other?” 

“Yes,” Jugend bites, and Redlich pushes to his feet. Alte follows suit when Jugend straightens stiffly to meet him. 

“Yes,” he agrees, “We do. Keep it contained. I won’t overlook anything that puts us at significant risk.” 

The towering patriarch looks once more at Alte, before taking his leave. Jugend stays rooted to the timber until the door clicks closed behind them, and then he turns to stare at the slab of wood. 

“One day,” he says, low and violent, “I’m going to get to stand over that man’s cold body. It’s going to be a just day.” 

Alte keeps his eyes on Jugend, studying the terse, set line of his shoulders and the flex of his jaw. “You can’t kill him.” 

Jugend barks a tight, humourless laugh. “Don’t I know it. But I can settle for watching him succumb to natural degradation instead of killing him quickly. If I could have, this would have been over much sooner.” 

“What would have been over?” Alte asks, but Jugend doesn’t answer, slipping over to the kitchen to yank the coffee pot off the draining board. Alte sighs and follows him to the counter, changing tacks. “What are we doing today?” 

“Well,” Jugend mutters bitterly as he hooks the pot into the drip machine, “I’m on a schedule now. So we’re going to put a few things in motion.” 

He glances back at Alte, pausing before he lifts onto the balls of his feet to pull a case from an upper cabinet. Alte recognises the red cross emblazoned on its lid when Jugend sets it on the countertop.

“Sit,” he orders, and comes around the granite monolith to take up the stool beside Alte. 

“You going to play nurse, are you?” Alte asks drily, and Jugend’s lips twitch in a smile as he turns Alte’s head and tilts it up slightly. 

“Someone has to patch you up,” he replies, and slides his phone out of his pocket, dropping it onto the bench top. “Call Kanin,” he instructs the integrated assistant, and reaches over to flick back the clasps on the first aid kit as the dial tone begins to ring. 

“How bad is it?” Alte asks softly. He can feel something warm and wet seeping into his hairline and traversing his cheekbone. Getting smacked across the shallowest part of your face with a seven-pound pistol tends to draw out some blood. The bruising will follow later, Alte’s sure. 

“You’ll live,” Jugend says, and his tone switches when Kanin answers on the other end of the phone. “When can you be over here?” 

“You at Goose?” Kanin asks. 

Jugend retrieves a small vial of antiseptic and upends it onto a cotton pad. “Yeah. If the Rolls is still out front, circle the block and give it another five minutes.” 

“A visit from your uncle, huh?” 

“We can talk about it more when you arrive,” Jugend assures him with a terse jaw, and holds Alte’s chin steady between his thumb and forefinger as he turns his attention to cleaning some of the blood out of Alte’s hair. 

“Sure. I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Bring Alte a new knife,” Jugend adds quickly, leaning absently towards the phone. He frowns at a particularly stubborn congealment, and Alte tries not to wince at the increased pressure as he scrubs slowly at it. 

“Hey,” Alte calls towards the phone that he’s turned away from. 

“Hey,” Kanin replies, apparently unsurprised by Alte’s eavesdropping. “You lose it or something?” 

“Sure,” Alte replies, and can’t help jerking in a slight wince when Jugend presses into the actual wound. Jugend slows, but holds him steady, and Alte tries to let his shoulders unwind. “Left it in the wrist of one of Redlich’s men.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Kanin asks, “What’d he do to deserve that?” 

“Tried to knock my teeth out of my skull,” Alte answers coldly. “Figured it was the least I could do to repay the favour.” 

“Fair enough,” Kanin concedes, and Alte can hear him moving around as he shuffles the phone. “I’m heading out now, I’ll be there soon.” 

“Alright,” Jugend says, and the phone bleats to mark Kanin’s absence. He sits back a bit to inspect his work, then adjusts Alte’s head a little to put some light on the wound. “That was immensely stupid, by the way,” he says quietly, and Alte glances at him. “Threatening my uncle like that.” 

“Do I need to leave town?” Alte asks seriously. 

“No,” Jugend replies just as solemnly. “Just don’t do anything like that again. As admirable as it was,” he adds with a small smile. 

Alte grins. “You were admiring me, huh?” 

Jugend hums, frowning slightly, but the smile doesn’t fade. “I’m allowed to do that; you’re my personal guard. And yes, it was… impressive, to see someone so willing to get shot on my behalf. Would have made it very hard for you to do the rest of your job though.” 

“You don’t like initiative?” Alte asks, and Jugend scoffs, setting the now-pink cotton pad aside as he digs around for some gauze. 

“Kanin and I like people who can do as they’re told, the first time they’re told,” he answers, and settles for a medium-sized bandage, peeling off the back as he meets Alte’s stare with a private smile. “But yes, occasionally, I like men with initiative.” 

Alte tilts his head and holds still as Jugend applies the bandage across his temple, brushing back his hair. “You said men that time.” 

“Hmm?” Jugend hums, his attention on the bandage as he smooths it over with his thumb. 

“You said people the first time,” Alte elaborates, fixing his gaze on the front door, “And men the second time. You said you like _men_ with initiative.” 

Alte doesn’t look back when Jugend pauses, but he can feel his piercing gaze on him. His words are underscored by amusement when he says with quiet conviction, “Yes, I did.” 

That makes heat rush into Alte’s cheeks, and he’s suddenly glad he has an excuse for blood to be concentrating in his face as he swallows hard. “Do I get to ask about that?” 

Jugend chuckles, low and dark, and pulls away. “Not today, you don’t. We’ve got work to do.” 

“Right,” Alte mutters as Jugend slips off the stood, padding back towards the coffee machine. 

“You take yours black?” 

Alte nods, tentatively prodding at the bandage. “No sugar.” 


	11. Segment

“That was stupid,” Kanin says bluntly, and aims a kick at his ribs that has a fair amount of force behind it. 

They’re in the gym in the basement of Jugend’s apartment building, circling each other on the vinyl mats. The mafia don had gone straight back to his laptop once Kanin had arrived, and after a quick update, had all but dismissed the pair of them to focus on his work. They’d spoken briefly about a very early morning private meetup in an industrial estate down in Burnside, and implied that Kanin would be subbing Alte out. 

Alte doesn’t mind. He’ll get a morning to himself, and the opportunity to sleep in after Jugend’s fifteen-hour marathon doesn’t exactly sound like torture. Spending another day cooped up in Jugend’s apartment with only the staccato click of a keyboard to distract him did, though. He’s fairly certain his abject resignation was easy enough to read, because the other unoccupied man had taken pity on him. Kanin had offered to spar Alte downstairs, citing something about needing to keep active while his knee heals, and Alte had jumped on the distraction. 

He’d started by going easy on Kanin, only because he’d figured laying out a semi-cripple was bad form. Kanin hadn’t gone easy on him, and Alte had abandoned the sentiment pretty quickly. He’s spry and lithe, coiled with lean muscle despite his stature. Neither of them are your traditional steroid-dosed grunt, but Alte has no doubt Kanin could hold his own against one without breaking a sweat, so he endeavours to demonstrate the same. 

They’ve been running through a plethora of pins and offensive jabs for the past half hour. Alte’s worked up a light sweat, and the remnant aches in his muscles are just beginning to come online, so he’s got an easy grin on his lips. Kanin’s expression is terse and focused, and Alte can tell there’s a thread of irritation tied behind his neutral demeanour. 

Kanin hadn’t been exactly pleased by Jugend’s summary of the conversation, but Alte had figured he was mostly pissed that Jugend had taunted Redlich like that, without him around to protect him. Alte hadn’t considered that Kanin might be frustrated with _him_ , but his mood has significantly soured since they stepped out of Jugend’s earshot. 

“What was stupid about it?” Alte returns, and absorbs a sweep with his bicep. 

He’s bracing for Kanin to chew him out over Jugend’s safety, not that Alte thinks he could have done much more to protect the mafioso, given how he was taunting Redlich’s men. And all things considered, Jugend came out without a scratch on anything other than his ego, so Alte doesn’t think he did too badly. 

“You got yourself injured,” Kanin grunts, and takes advantage of Alte’s surprise to land a square jab to his shoulder. 

He reels back with a returning bleat of pain, working the distance back between them as he replies, “Isn’t that in the job description?” 

Kanin’s scowl deepens as he circles Alte, eyes skimming for an opening. Alte keeps his hands close and ready. “Your _job_ is to keep Jugend safe-” 

“Which I did,” Alte interjects, and earns a few more degrees of heat in that glower. 

“-which you can’t do if you’re injured,” Kanin bites flatly, and Alte feels a spike of bewilderment at the accusation there. “You held a knife to a mafia don’s throat. That’s putting your life _and_ Jugend’s life in jeopardy.” 

“His life was already in jeopardy,” Alte shoots back, and aims a hook into Kanin’s block. “Redlich had a weapon, Jugend was within striking distance. I wasn’t waiting around to find out whether he intended to use it. I did my job.” 

“And _you_ got injured for it,” Kanin digs. 

Confusion filters into Alte’s consciousness, the concern behind Kanin’s irritation niggling. “Better than him, right? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” 

Kanin’s expression snaps to horrified exasperation, before twisting into another glower. “That you’re supposed to throw yourself down on every blade with no concern for your own survival, your own safety? Yes, Jugend comes first. Jugend always comes first. But you can’t succeed me if you’re _dead,_ Alte. I need you alive to protect him. Which means taking your own well-being into account as soon as he’s clear of the threat. You can’t wind up dead for his stupid pride.” 

Alte snorts. “Not dead. Not all that injured either. But I’ve got to be honest, I’m not completely buying the ‘loyal human shields need not apply’ line. Jugend comes first, one way or another.” He shrugs, loosening his shoulders and letting the last of the tension slide out of his adrenaline-perked form. “Sometimes I’m going to have to get hurt to ensure his safety.” 

Kanin’s expression curls into dark frustration. “His safety, yes. But not his ego. Who gave you that impression?” 

“You did,” Alte answers, and Kanin starts. “Come on, boss. I’ve been shadowing you for a few weeks now. Tell me you wouldn’t even hesitate to jump in front of a bullet. You’d do anything for him.” 

“I’m different,” Kanin growls after a moment wrongfooted, and tries for a jab again. Alte ducks. 

“How are we different?” Alte asks. 

Kanin gets a grip on his arm, dragging him off-balance as Alte wrestles free and they return to circling. “I’m his second. That’s _my_ job.” Alte recoils at the disparity, at the reminder that for all his work, all his efforts, he’s not Kanin’s replacement. Won’t ever be. “Your job is to keep him in one piece.” 

“Which I did,” Alte reminds him, touched by the teniente’s concern as much as he is frustrated. “And honestly, if it’s all the same to you, I’m not even that pissed about the headwound. I’ve had worse injuries than a scratch. Besides, from what I was hearing, I was doing exactly what Jugend wanted me to do. I think I performed exactly how he wanted me to.” 

A different sort of darkness slides over Kanin’s features then, his eyes narrowing a tad. His lips thin to a severe line, but he rolls his jaw, curling his fists up as he circles Alte. It’s strange to see the man so riled, so easily heated. Alte’s never known him to let his guard down this far, and seeing Kanin in something other than his stoic mask is somewhat thrilling. 

Kanin’s voice is surprisingly level when he asks, “You think so, do you?” 

Alte smirks, returning a sweeping kick that Kanin blocks. It’s abrupt enough that he has to double back a few steps before he comes at him again. “Jugend seemed pretty impressed.” 

Kanin springs forward, and Alte blocks the initial jab, but falls for the grapple that follows, twisting him across Kanin’s chest and spinning him around. Kanin’s toes bite into the soft skin at the back of Alte’s knee, and he grunts as he’s slammed chest-first into the mat. 

The other man’s hand tightens on his right wrist, holding it between his shoulder blades as he grinds a knee down against Alte’s ribs, compressing his chest as he wheezes on the floor. Alte can feel Kanin’s hot breath on the back of his neck, but it’s not nearly as exerted as he’d expect it to be. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” 

Alte turns his head until he can direct one eye back over his shoulder as Kanin winds a hand down around his other arm, just above his elbow, effectively holding that one immobile too. Alte lets a teasing smile settle on his lips as he says, “I’m getting pretty good at doing your job for you,” and gets to enjoy Kanin’s expression as it darkens, his grip compressing around Alte’s upper arm. 

Kanin shifts his weight slightly, pressing the air from Alte’s pinned lung with his knee, and then he yanks down and out, sharp and controlled and hard. There’s a brief moment of resistance, and then Alte’s shoulder is out of its socket. 

Alte blinks, his chest tightening as the muscles reflexively constrict and try to pull his arm back into alignment, and Kanin’s grip tightens as he holds steady against the resistance. Then the shock of having his _arm_ dislocated from his _shoulder_ rushes up on him, and Alte bleats a wordless yelp of alarm. 

Kanin leans down, his words blunt and cold when he says, “Don’t make the mistake of playing us, kid. Either of us. You’re not cut out for it.” 

He’s crossed a line. He’s not sure where, but Alte’s not entirely convinced that Kanin’s not going to twist his dislocated arm and cause some genuine, long-lasting damage. By the way his gaze is flat and hard where it hovers over his shoulder, Alte’s not even convinced he’s not thinking about dislocating the other one while he’s at it. There’s no give in that tone; this isn’t a game they’re playing for fun anymore. Alte’s very aware that he’s fucked up, and now he’s pinned beneath a _very skilled teniente_ who has Alte’s arm crooked like he wants to crack his elbow out of alignment too. His stomach plummets through the floor, dousing him in a sharp flash of ice as he pales. 

Alte whines and tries to turn slightly, and Kanin puts more pressure on his spine, holding him steady. Which is probably for the best, because Alte’s vision is swimming and his brain is panicking because his arm’s not where it should be and the soft flex of muscles isn’t pulling it back to its rightful place. Alte’s too stunned to negotiate with it, to explain that Kanin’s holding it adrift, and in that moment he feels viscerally helpless. 

“You’re going to stop doing dumb smart shit,” Kanin says, and Alte nods breathlessly, shakily. He feels like he’s balanced on the cusp of delirium, his stomach jammed up in his throat. “You’re just going to take orders, understand? You’re going to do anything and everything he tells you to. Yes?” 

“Yes,” Alte gasps breathlessly, babbling. “Yes, yes. God, please, yes.” 

“Good,” Kanin says, and twists until his elbow is locked. Then he pulls back off Alte’s lungs slightly and _shoves_ the ball of his shoulder neatly back into the socket with a blunt finality, the sensation rolling over Alte like a wave. 

He turns aside and upheaves onto the mat.


	12. Temperament

Their private meetup in Burnside ends in a scuffle, because Jugend comes back to the meeting house with a gash open on his left forearm, weeping lethargically as he shoulders past Alte’s dumbstruck stare and into the shower. Kanin meets his gaze with a look that advises him not to mention it - to either of them - and Alte takes that to mean Jugend did something beyond Kanin’s control. Otherwise he wouldn’t be yanking a medical supply kit out from under the marble counters and slumping down onto the shower bench to wrap the wound. 

Kanin turns on his heel as soon as Jugend’s seated, disappearing back through the doorway, so Alte picks up his slack and joins Jugend in the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him to offer them some privacy, and leans against the doorway to the shower, one shoulder crooked against the edge of the wall. 

Jugend surveys him once, and beckons with an open palm. “You have any cigarettes on you?” 

Alte has exactly fourteen cigarettes in the pack nestled in his inside breast pocket. “You don’t smoke.” 

“Correction: I _didn’t_ smoke,” Jugend says sharply, and beckons again, more irritably, “Now I want a cigarette. Give me one.” 

Alte sighs, sliding his hand past the dark silk trim and flicking open the lid of his pack. He offers one to Jugend, who takes it eagerly and pinches it between his lips. “You get one,” Alte says sternly, and Jugend throws him an expression that says he’ll get as many as he wants. Alte meets it with flat refusal. “One. You need a light?” 

“Yes,” Jugend mutters around the obstruction, wrapping the gauze around his arm. He pauses briefly in his mad tourniqueting to lean towards the flame Alte offers him, sucking down the first few breathfuls before he exhales through his nose. “I have no idea if these are good quality or not,” he admits after a moment, and goes back to his wrapping. “But they taste like shit.” 

“You wanted one,” Alte points out, and pockets the lighter, brushing Jugend’s hands off. “And they’re cheap, for the record.” 

The other man leans back against the marble with a sigh, letting Alte crouch down to pick apart his reckless bindings. Jugend keeps his left arm extended as Alte reapplies the gauze with slow, precise care, plucking the cigarette from his lips with his other hand. 

“How often do you smoke these, anyway? I barely ever see you with one.” 

“Only when I’m stressed,” Alte replies, holding the gauze tight as he rifles through the kit for a clasp to cinch it off. “Which you should know, as my boss, is more often than not these days.” 

“You’re getting vocal again,” Jugend mutters absently, and Alte clenches his jaw, exhaling slowly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs tightly, and resolves not to say anything further. 

Jugend’s gaze flickers down to him as he takes another drag. The bathroom door opens then, Kanin stepping briskly across the tile to step into the walk-in-robe, barely acknowledging them. 

“You don’t smoke,” he calls back as he crosses onto the carpet, flicking on the light. 

Jugend exhales irritably and glares as he removes the cigarette to speak. “Alte’s already chastised me; can we skip this part?” 

Kanin doesn’t answer, and Alte pins the bandage clip tightly on the inside of Jugend’s elbow, sliding back up to his feet. He watches Jugend turn it slightly, testing the resistance, then Alte steps out of the shower to help Kanin prepare. 

Kanin hangs the pair of suits he has on the hooks inside the wardrobe, before pointing at a drawer behind Alte. “Second down, the black Oxfords.” 

Alte retrieves the shoes, setting them against the wall as Kanin lays out a dark green tie that’s almost black in the soft light. Then he half-turns back towards the shower as he inspects the contents of a slim top drawer. “Are you wearing your ring?” 

“Fucking have to, don’t I?” Jugend calls back with stark irritation, and Alte has to wonder exactly what’s soured his mood so much. Even when the man’s displeased, he’s usually not so brash about having everyone in his vicinity know it. Even when it is just Alte and Kanin as his audience. 

“Insufferable prick,” Kanin mutters under his breath, almost low enough that Alte can’t hear it, and plucks out a set of sleek gold cufflinks, which he sets on the dresser next to the tie. Then he gestures to a tall armoire at the end of the wardrobe. “Open that. Code’s four-seven-nine-four-two.” 

Alte doesn’t understand until he pulls open the twin doors and lays eyes on the small safe nestled inside. Then he crouches down to his heels and punches in the numbers, spinning the dial. “Should I really know that code?” he asks conversationally, and yanks open the door. 

The hand that lands on his shoulder startles him, but he only sees the pale slip of scar across Jugend’s throat when he glances up. The man leans past him, snagging a small, polished wooden box from its depths as he purrs, “It changes daily. And there’s barely anything of value in here, other than sentimental jewellery.” 

“If you let that ring get stolen, your uncle will flay you alive,” Kanin reminds him sharply, and Jugend rolls his eyes as he straightens. Alte notices his lips are void of the cigarette; he must have put it out before coming in the wardrobe. 

“It doesn't see daylight enough to get stolen. We only ever wear them on _special_ occasions,” he retorts with rich scorn, and flips back the lid, plucking out its contents before setting the box on the dresser. Jugend pauses to slide the thick-set ring onto his left middle finger, admiring the glint in the low light. “Do you even remember the last time I wore this?” 

“Svetya’s wedding,” Kanin replies instantly, without turning around. Jugend’s eyes go a bit glassy as he recalls with a soft, “Ah.” 

“Why are you wearing it now?” Alte asks, straightening. 

Jugend’s features immediately descend into their petulant scowl, so Alte looks to Kanin for his answer as the younger man shucks his trousers, stepping into the new set. 

“Because you’re attending Bieder’s funeral,” Kanin answers, and Alte starts. “Whether you like it or not.” 

He’d almost forgotten the recent passing of his former boss and the late head of the Erdefunfte clan. It’s only been a fortnight since Alte had left him buried under that building, convinced that the man couldn’t have survived. He hadn’t seen a body per se, but that didn’t make him any less dead. He supposed a funeral was the logical course of action. They usually took a few days to organise, especially when the body was otherwise detained. Alte wonders absently if they even have a body to bury. 

“Thank God it’s closed casket,” Jugend mutters, answering his question, and takes the pressed, crisp white dress shirt Kanin hands him. “I don’t think I could stomach looking that fucker in the eyes one last time.” 

There’s a stark bitterness in his tone that Alte can’t discern the source of, and the words are out of his mouth before he can think to curb them. “Why don’t you like your uncle?” 

Both Jugend and Kanin freeze, but neither meets his gaze. Kanin’s expression looks torn between wanting to smack Alte and concern for Jugend’s retributory temper. He’s spared from both when Jugend rolls his shoulders, straightening like nothing’s amiss. 

“Let’s just say he was a homophobic fuck, and I’m not sorry he’s gone,” he says coldly, and Alte suddenly wishes he had something to do to distract him from the tension in the room. 

Kanin either doesn’t sense his unease, or doesn’t care, because he crosses over to the suit hanging to the right of the door and retrieves the black waistcoat. When he turns around, Alte can see the green silk of the back, hidden in the folds of the suit until now. It matches the dark silk of the green tie that Jugend’s currently knotting expertly. 

Jugend reaches for the cufflinks, flipping down his sleeves as Kanin catches sight of his tie. 

“No,” he says sternly, and Alte watches the barest irritable crease line Jugend’s brow before it smooths impassively. “Do you want me to get my ass handed to me? If you wear a half-windsor, your uncle’s going to have me beheaded.” 

“We haven’t beheaded anyone in over thirty years,” Jugend replies petulantly, and Kanin’s scowl deepens. 

“Stop being a fucking brat,” he snaps. “Make it a full windsor.” 

“What if I do a trinity? Do you think Redlich would have me disowned from the family?” Jugend quips as he locks the cufflinks through the buttonholes. Alte honestly can’t tell the difference between ties on his best day, so he can’t see what the fuss is about. But evidently Kanin’s prescribing to a creed that predates Jugend, because he’s not backing down. 

His brow arches coolly as he offers Jugend the waistcoat, beyond engaging him now. “More likely Alte’s going to be taken out back and put down for your insolence,” Kanin responds dryly, and Alte feels a sharp shard of ice plunge down his spine. “Since he’s technically the one responsible for your appearance today.” 

Jugend growls low in the back of his throat, but picks apart the tie. Kanin casts Alte as close to an apologetic glance as he’s seen on the man, and he nods, brushing past them to retrieve the shoes. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready, anyway?” Jugend mumbles, and cinches the windsor knot. 

“Me?” Alte confirms absently, and lays the shoes down in front of the dresser. 

“I’m not attending,” Kanin explains, and nods at the other suit as he adjusts the waistcoat on Jugend’s shoulders. “That’s for you. You’re going in my place.” 

Alte glances back at it, and faces them again. “Why?” 

“Because for guard, funerals involve a lot of standing,” Kanin responds. “And I caught a bullet in my kneecap, so I’m bowing out of this one. Hurry up and get changed.” 

Alte shucks his jacket, draping it over a nearby loveseat as he pulls apart his tie. “Is there anything I need to know in advance for this event?” 

Kanin snorts. “It’s not a mission, kid. It’s not going to need a battle strategy.” 

“Have you forgotten what family meet ups are like?” Jugend interjects, taking the loveseat so he can slide off his shoes. Alte loses his belt and trousers, and then his shirt, approaching the hanging suit. 

It looks more expensive than everything Alte owns combined. The material has some portion of cashmere in it, and Alte’s guessing that percentage is higher than fifty. It’s a stark, sleek black in three-piece style with a simple matching tie. Standard funeral attire. It’s tailored at the waist and inseam, and the shoulders look a quarter-inch wider than Alte’s, but it’s otherwise going to be a flattering fit. 

“We’ll get you a tailored suit eventually,” Jugend says by way of apology, standing to settle in his shoes and pull on the corresponding leather belt. “You’ll need one for the family events. This one was just unscheduled, and we’ve been a bit pressed for time.” 

Alte almost asks if funerals are ever scheduled, and then decides that he doesn’t want to know if the answer to that is anything other than a hearty negative. He slides on the trousers, admiring the fit. “Looks perfectly fine to me.” 

“Mmm, but a tailored suit gives you that tiny bit more class,” Jugend points out, and when Alte looks up, he’s watching him. He’s fully dressed now, bar the suit jacket, and Alte suddenly understands what he means. 

Because Jugend looks _elegant_ , and Alte didn’t think that was a word he’d ever apply to a man. But there’s really nothing else that comes close, and he wears the suit like it’s a second skin, neat and tucked immaculately at every angle. It hugs the gentle curve of his ribs, and the length of his legs. Every piece of it is individual and yet complimentary, subtle and outspoken in its choice of colour and style. He looks like a mafia don, properly and truly. 

Alte clears his throat and focuses on buttoning his shirt. Misjudges the first few buttons and has to start over, reddening under Jugend’s intrigued gaze. “Does this mean I’ll get to meet the rest of your family?” 

Jugend barks a laugh, and there’s genuine humour to it. “Yes, it does. Try not to pull any knives on them this time. We’re not above killing a man at a funeral. Threatening one of the family at a family event is one of those faux pas that takes a few bullets to rectify.” 

Alte swallows, and slips on his black tie. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m assuming I’m still packing?” he says, aiming the question at Kanin, who’s handing Jugend a comb. 

“Standard issue,” he confirms. “Take a knife if you want it, but don’t let it tempt you. Jugend’s not kidding about those consequences.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Jugend deposits the comb back on the dresser and steps out to retrieve his cologne. He pauses at Alte’s side before he leaves the wardrobe though, leaning in close to his ear with a sharp, amused smile. “Would make the event far more interesting though.” 

“For who?” Alte mutters back bitterly. 

Jugend chuckles, stepping through the doorway and out of sight as Kanin trails him. Alte focuses on trying to get his suit to sit as perfectly as Jugend’s, hoping it will distract him from the trepidation sparking in his gut. 


	13. Lament

The funeral is a long and arduous affair, spackled with flowery affirmations and long sermons delivered by old acquaintances of Bieder Erdefunfte. The family fills the first pews on either side of the aisle, as is customary, and Alte stands at parade rest in the nearest auxiliary nave and tunes out most of the words. 

Jugend sits at perfect attention in his seat, his hazel eyes fixed on the lectern with false rapture for the whole of the trihoral affair. Alte can tell his mind’s far away from the imposing pulpit and the equally as imposing coffin. He doubts anyone who doesn’t know him well will notice it, and anyone who does won’t be brave enough to comment on it. 

He’s been doing an admirable job of pretending he loved his dear uncle Bieder. Alte would be impressed by his commitment to the act if he wasn’t so sickeningly aware of how much Jugend despises him. Of how Jugend  _ has _ to play this role, for their guards and their guests and his own uncle Redlich, who won’t let him get away with anything less than absolute adoration of his late uncle’s feats. 

Alte stands in his alcove and spends most of the service feeling sorry for Jugend. Tampers down on the curl of dislike that’s stoked in him at the sight of Redlich on the inside of the left pew, spine ramrod straight and expression carefully arranged. 

Jugend has only interacted with Redlich once since arriving, crossing the marbled threshold to shake his uncle’s hand with an expression that was carefully arranged to be both solemn and condoling. Alte had taken up pace at his left elbow, so he’d been close enough to catch Redlich’s words when he’d leaned forward to murmur into Jugend’s ear, “Couldn’t strip that filth out of your hair for your own uncle’s funeral?” 

Jugend gives him a commiseratory smile that entirely bypasses his eyes, taking his hand back genially. “Yes, it’s what he would have wanted,” he simpers solemnly, tilting his head back so the light catches on his still-brunette locks. 

Alte doesn’t miss the shard of ice that settles like jagged glass behind Redlich’s eyes, but Jugend moves quickly past him to embrace his mother, and the moment passes. 

Jugend had been a bit more talkative with his siblings, neither of which Alte had actually been introduced to, but he’d gleaned enough from their quiet conversation to work out that they were Svetya and Greta, the youngest before Jugend. Svetya has a crop of bleached white-blonde hair that can’t possibly be natural, and Alte wonders if she’d caught the same flack from their uncle for her aesthetic choices. 

Jugend takes up the space at the end of the pew, looking oddly lonely with his sisters’ and mother’s partners interspersed along the row. Redlich and Jugend’s two eldest siblings don’t seem to have brought guests, but they’re across the aisle. Jugend looks forlorn, the odd one in the line of seven. 

Alte finds himself wondering what Jugend would look like with someone on his arm, and if he’d wear it as nicely as his suit. He can’t imagine Jugend bringing anyone for any reason other than cosmetic purposes, to agitate his uncle. Someone to turn to and fro in the light like a new watch or a shiny jewel. 

He hasn’t known Jugend to take on any amorous affections, not since Alte’s been on the clan’s books, anyway. He doubts Jugend would settle for anyone even remotely less intellectual than he is, and he can’t see the family approving of any reckless flings. Maybe Jugend would flit from partner to partner anyway, just to piss them off. But that seems too direct an affront, and if he is entertaining any relationships, he’s certainly doing so outside Alte’s long hours. 

It strikes him for the first time that Jugend might be lonely. 

He’s still chewing through that thought by the time they retire back to Bieder’s residence for the reception. 

Alte’s reminded exactly how obscene Bieder was about flaunting his wealth. The man was loathe to pass up a hard drink or exquisite meal while Alte was playing his secondary, but this puts his slovenly disregard to shame. His late residence is a colossal three-storey monument to his influence, a grand white sandstone monstrosity with an interior decked out in marble and gold leaf. It more than accommodates the guests that swarm into its depths to mill about after the funeral, as well as the fifty or so catering staff who wander around with platters on their arms to offer hor d’oeuvres and refreshments. 

Jugend, Svetya and Svetya’s wife Daniya immediately collapse into ugly brown leather armchairs the second they get through the doors, claiming the small sitting area beside the sun-soaked patio with enough veracity to deter anyone from approaching them to offer condolences. They’re there all of fifteen minutes before Elke catches Jugend’s eye and he peels himself away to make idle chit chat for the next hour before he can retire to better company again. 

Alte shadows him silently, listening in on the conversations with vague interest, aware that Jugend has resigned himself to the task but doesn’t enjoy it any more than Alte does. There’s a quiet camaraderie between them, a shared commiseration as they listen to portly men wax winsome about Bieder Erdefunfte’s great legacy. 

They find themselves intercepting a conversation between two broad-shouldered men in the parlour room that annexes the patio, swilling whiskey and grinning fondly as they pass anecdotes back and forth between themselves. Jugend slots himself into the conversation with a practiced grace, briefly startling them. 

“We were just remarking upon your uncle's many feats,” the man says jovially. 

Jugend smiles patiently, clasping his hands in the small of his back. “Which feats were those?” 

“Helping your mother out of those tight spots early in her career, mostly. Re-establishing the expansion into Michigan after that Cebressi business - however  _ excessive _ his persuasions may have been at the time,” the man rattles off, sharing a brief laugh with his colleague. “And that business with your departure, of course.” 

Jugend looks like he’s been doused in water. The entire expression washes off his face when he repeats blankly, in a low tone, “My departure?” 

“In your teens,” the man elaborates, as if Jugend should remember. He’s clearly unreceptive to the obvious tension that's radiating from Jugend’s stiff form. Even his colleague shifts uncomfortably at his side. “That trip to Wisconsin?” 

“What trip,” Jugend says flatly, and Alte feels his own pulse ricochet dangerously without knowing why. 

The man blinks, as if suddenly aware that he’s misstepped. “Apologies, I misspoke,” he recovers with, smiling blandly. “I must have been thinking of someone else.” 

“You must have,” Jugend forces out, and excuses himself. The two men seem only too eager to extract themselves from the situation. When they’re far enough away that only Alte can hear him, Jugend mutters under his breath, “Get me a drink. Anything hard.” 

Alte peels off for the open bar, spotting Kanin leaning up against the hardwood and watching them with concern. He orders a double neat scotch and leans up beside his mentor, following his gaze as it tracks Jugend’s movements. 

“What’d they say?” Kanin asks quietly, his tone reserved. 

Alte exhales and shifts his weight as he settles on his elbows back against the bar. “Something about Wisconsin,” he replies, and notices when Kanin stiffens beside him. 

“Ah, fuck,” he growls after a terse minute, and reaches over to snag his half-drunk bourbon. 

Alte keeps his gaze on Jugend as he interjects himself into a small group of men with a beaming smile. “That bad, huh?” 

“Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Kanin mutters sourly, and orders another bourbon before glancing up at Alte. “You good?” 

“I’m assuming I don’t get to ask about it,” Alte murmurs lightly, and Kanin’s pinched expression answers his question. “Didn’t think so. Don’t mention Wisconsin then, got it.” 

The bartender returns with Alte’s scotch and Kanin’s bourbon, setting them on coasters as Alte straightens to return to Jugend’s side. Kanin catches his elbow before he can depart, and Alte glances down in surprise. 

“He’s going to get very drunk tonight,” Kanin warns him with a terse, displeased set to his jaw. “Let him. Make sure he doesn’t start shit with anybody, and make sure he gets home moderately unscathed. Try to keep the shots in the low twenties. And Alte?” Kanin adds as Alte nods and tries to pull away. “Just make sure you only match one to every three of his. One of you needs to be coherent.” 

Jugend’s spotted his drink, and is making a beeline for them, so Kanin withdraws his hand and turns back to the bar. Alte offers Jugend his scotch as he approaches, but the man’s hand flashes out, gripping his upper arm, muttering, “We’re leaving.” 

Alte glances down at the grip on his arm, and Jugend withdraws it sharply, like he hadn’t been aware of the motion. He looks wrung out, distracted and defensive, and Alte hates seeing him so on edge. “Okay,” he agrees evenly, and doesn’t miss the relief that briefly kisses Jugend’s brow before he throws back the glass and leaves it empty on the counter. Alte lets him lead them back to Svetya and Daniya, shifting to pace him. 

“We’re going to the Office,” Jugend announces, palms kneading the back of his armchair as he leans over it with a broad, lazy grin. “Are you coming with us, or are you going to spend another hour with these sycophants?” 

Daniya slides her arms off Svetya’s shoulder, springing to her feet and offering a hand to her wife. “We’re right behind you. I need a cocktail after that service.” 

“Ditto,” Jugend mutters, and makes a speedy exit out the patio doors. 


	14. Enticement

The night air is crisp but palatable, so they alight from the chauffeured sedan at Morgan Station and walk the last block or so past bustling bars and darkened storefronts. Jugend’s brimming with restless energy, his stride quick and purposeful as he waves at the bouncer and stands back to hold open the door for Svetya and Daniya. 

Alte can spot the image of a small white bird in flight above the venue name, but the script is too stylized for him to glean much more. Jugend claps him on the back and beams as he ushers him inside. 

He tries to keep track of Svetya’s streak of white hair as they weave through the foyer and to a secondary door further set in. To Alte’s left, a minimalist, sleek bar is heaving with chattering nightgoers, but they descend a narrow flight of stairs to a darker, more informal establishment below ground. 

The Erdefunfte siblings must have been here before, because they beeline for a lounge and armchair set in the back corner. Jugend practically dives onto the lounge, sprawling across the worn leather. Alte’s startled by his loose-limbed carelessness; he’s never seen Jugend so unrefined before, and never in a public venue. 

Svetya takes the nearest armchair, laughing as Daniya perches on her lap and flags down the nearest waiter. She orders a round of shots while Alte takes the remaining armchair, perching on the edge of the cushion and sweeping the room out of habit. 

Aside from the two bartenders and the handful of waitstaff, there’s only about three other people in the bar, and those patrons are too rowdy to offer them any attention. 

The waiter interrupts his scan, leaning over the low table to lay out four shots of a clear spirit that Alte’s already dreading. The Erdefunftes scoop up the glasses eagerly, lifting them and pausing when Alte doesn’t immediately leap on his. 

“What’s the hold up?” Daniya asks with a flash of brilliant white teeth, offering Alte his. 

“I don’t-” Alte starts with a pinched brow. 

“You’re twenty-one, right?” Svetya enquires around her wife, arching a dark brow at him. 

“He is,” Jugend confirms, straightening into a sit so he can leer over his shot glass. He fixes Alte with a mischievous smile and a steady eye and orders, “Drink.” 

Alte remembers Kanin’s instructions, and leans forward with a sigh, pinching the glass as he lifts it off Daniya. He knows a lost cause when he sees one. 

Svetya thrusts her shot glass into the centre of the table, declaring, “To uncle Bieder: if homosexuality is a sin, then I’ll see you in hell, you insulting prick.” 

“Cheers,” Jugend concurs, with distinct feeling, and throws back his shot. 

Alte feels his stomach turn uneasily, but he downs his shot too. He has the unshakeable feeling that he’s intruding on something personal, something private. He barely knew Bieder when he was alive, but he was an imposing figure nonetheless; figuratively spitting on his grave feels like beckoning in retribution from the dead. At least he’s not pissing on it. 

That, and he’s not actually sure exactly what Bieder did to make his nieces and nephews despise him so much. The guy was from an older generation, sure, so Alte figures he’d have some pretty outdated notions. But he still can’t fathom what he could have done to offend them so much. Whatever it was, Svetya and Jugend seem to have caught the brunt of it. 

Svetya coughs and winces as the spirit goes down, upending her empty glass on the table. “Fuck. Okay, new round,” she orders, and raps her knuckles on the table. 

A waiter materialises, and then there’s a whole other row. Jugend fixes him with a piercing look, so Alte rolls his eyes and downs his shot. Then he replaces the empty glass and stands to sweep the room before he can be dragged into the next round. 

It’s a small bar, private and secluded. Another small group of patrons stumbles down the narrow stairs, and the waiter directs them to a table far across the room from the Erdefunfte siblings. Figures they’d have a monopoly on their favourite bar, Alte thinks, and tosses up the benefits and detriments of stepping out to have a cigarette. It would certainly help clear his head so he can better handle three rambunctious mafia heads, but Alte eventually resigns himself and doubles back to reclaim his armchair. 

Jugend toasts his reappearance with another mandatory shot, and cements Alte’s belief that he’s looking for any and every excuse to get absolutely plastered. Alte’s fairly certain they’ve churned through a speed round while he’s been running perimeter, and is quietly glad he hadn’t stuck around to get roped into it. 

It fades quickly when Svetya walks them through another trio of white spirits in rapid succession, and then Alte sculls water to offset what is sure to be an inevitable hangover. The glare that he levels at the bartender when he goes up to retrieve his glass must be something formidable, because he manages a clear twenty minutes before they approach again with a tray. 

“Another round,” the waiter announces after a few minutes of stagnant chatter, laying them out. “From the house.” 

Daniya hisses her assent, and Alte eyes his shot with an air of concern. 

“Maybe we should take a break,” Alte suggests. 

“What, are we going to wax winsome? Afraid we’ll have a rousing philosophical discussion about whether there really is a God?” Jugend teases. 

“There surely must be a fucking God,” Svetya chortles with a beetled brow and a broad smile as she scoops up her shot, “because thanks to that closed casket, I didn’t have to look at that Steven Seagal grease-job.” 

Jugend winces, and not just from the burn of alcohol. “The only times I’ve been _grateful_ for uncle Redlich’s extensive dress code was when it kept that dumbass from dressing himself.” 

Svetya laughs, and Jugend returns it with a grin, planting his shot glass on the wood before his expression blossoms with horrified recollection. 

“Do you remember the handlebar?” 

Daniya nearly chokes on her shot. “He had a _moustache_ at one point?” 

“I nearly forgot about that,” Svetya commiserates forlornly. “God, I must have been - what, nine when he grew that thing out?” 

“Must’ve been,” Jugend concurs. “I was six. We were close back then, he and I. Back before I worked out I liked having people between my legs, and he decided my life wasn’t worth the price of the coffin he’d have to bury me in.” 

A stiff silence follows his words, and Alte looks from Jugend to Svetya in the ensuing tension for guidance. She glances at Daniya, before meeting Alte’s gaze, and he’s surprised to find pity among the concern there. 

“Alte’s still here,” she says softly to Jugend, and Alte can’t help the strike of betrayal he feels at that statement, as if he’s not trusted enough to be privy to this part of their lives. He feels angry too, at them, for dragging him into this conversation only to shut him out as it suits them. 

Jugend’s lip curls back, but his irritation is half-hearted as he scoops up Alte’s untouched shot. “So what? What are you going to tell him, big sister? What even _is_ there to tell him?” 

Svetya glares at him, but she looks at a loss for how to curb this spiral of self-hatred. Daniya, on the other hand, peels herself off Svetya’s lap and nudges Jugend bodily across the lounge, draping limbs over him. 

“No more self pity,” she asserts, and flags down the waiter. “We’re here to drink and drown our sorrows in woefully unregulated drinking games.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Alte interjects before he can curb it, and flinches at Daniya’s mischievous grin. She points a ringed finger at him. 

“You’re first, chaperone,” she declares, and Svetya vocally approves, ordering a tray of shots. 

Alte glances between their giddy faces, and concedes that he’s outnumbered and outmatched. Jugend has leaned back to drape his arms across the couch, the edge of his dress shirt riding up his abdomen, and Alte’s not sure if he’s too drunk or not drunk enough. 

He snatches a shot off the tray before it even hits the table, meeting Daniya’s gaze. “Fine. What are we playing?” 

“Truth and dare,” Daniya replies immediately, and then adds after a moment’s thought, “And shot. You pick truth or dare, and then you do the other, and after you follow through on each one, you drink.” 

Alte’s played a roundabout version of this game before. He’d been sixteen and holed up with a gang on the lower east side of Milwaukee, blowing time while they’d waited for their shipment to show up. They’d propped themselves up on a set of half-cracked pallets with the warehouse roller thrown wide open. Drinking had been the only feasible way to keep his joints from icing over in the November chill, and for whatever reason, no one had thought that closing the roller door would have solved their problem. Might have had something to do with the three empty bottles of Jack Daniels. 

He’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be more of a dichotomous choice involved, but Daniya’s already proved herself a force to be reckoned with in the past few hours, so Alte swills his shot. 

“I feel like I’m going to lose this,” Alte confesses, and eyes the amber liquid. “Truth first.” 

Daniya squints mysteriously, the effect ruined by her unbridled smirk. “Who’s the hottest person here?” 

“Easy: Svetya,” Alte says with bolstered confidence, to a chorus of laughter from the lady herself. 

“Liar,” Jugend growls, and Alte winks at him as he throws back the shot. He realised what he’s done immediately afterward, heat pooling on his cheeks, but he’s hoping the dimness hides the worst of it. 

Jugend’s jaw is a little slack after that, but Alte tries to bypass it by demanding, “What’s my dare?” 

Daniya opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Jugend snatches up a shot and cuts in, “He knows knife tricks.” 

Daniya’s eyes light up, and Alte feels something sink and flutter in his stomach at the sight. “Pinfinger,” she declares. “Go.” 

“You’re shitting me,” Alte murmurs, glancing between them as Jugend throws back his shot and smirks. “I’ve had like, seven shots.” 

“I’ll let you pick my truth next,” Jugend offers, and Alte hesitates for the barest second before he flicks out his switchblade. Daniya practically squeals in excitement, shimmying to the edge of the cushion to see better as Alte flattens his left palm against the coffee table. 

“You’re buying them a new table too,” Alte warns, and settles his grip on the handle. 

“Is a switchblade really a good idea?” Svetya enquires, eyeing the weapon as Alte presses the sharp tip into the grain of the wood. “If the mechanism fails, you’ll cut into your grip.” 

Alte shrugs. “No more dangerous than losing a finger. Have you got any other knives on you?” When silence meets his question, Alte huffs a laugh and leans his weight forward over the table. “Didn’t think so.” 

He must’ve done this just shy of a million times now. Shit, he could probably do it in his sleep. It’d been one of their favourite past-times when Alte had been in the rings, and he’s got a pretty collection of white lines on the insides of his knuckles to prove it. 

He picks up a good rhythm, exhaling as he settles into the familiarity of the motion. Lets the staccato thunk of the knife hitting the wood lull him as the blade dances over his splayed fingers. When he can barely hear the lapse between the drumming, he lifts the knife with a flourish and closes it, offering a half-bow. 

Daniya and Svetya both clap, and Jugend definitely looks impressed when he reaches for his shot. “I promised you my truth,” he reminds Alte as he pockets the knife, settling back on the lounge and spreading his knees casually. “Have at it.” 

It comes to Alte almost instantly. “You remember that conversation we had after your uncle visited?” he asks, and Jugend nods after a moment, digesting the memory. “That stuff about men and initiative. Tell me about that.” 

“There’s no question in there,” Jugend says before Daniya can concur. “You have to ask a question if you want the truth.” 

Alte feels the spark of challenge warming his nerves. “No one said anything about a question. Just has to be the truth. Tell me about your preference for men who show initiative.” 

Svetya looks like she’s enjoying this very, _very_ much. Jugend opens his mouth as if to protest, thinks Alte’s point through, and closes it. 

“Fine,” he says, and pins Alte with that green stare. “I like men; that’s not new information. And I like to be in charge. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be in this line of work.” 

“No,” Alte says immediately. “That’s not a confession. You’re just restating what we already know. Tell me what you meant.” 

“He has a point,” Svetya purrs with a smug smile, and Jugend shoots her a reproachful look. Then his gaze returns to Alte, hard and heated. 

“I like men, specifically submissive ones,” he says curtly, like he’s reciting a preference for art or classical music. “I like getting fucked by men with a willingness to relinquish control. I especially like men who can surprise me in bed. So yes, I like men with initiative.” 

Jugend tosses back his head and downs the shot, severing their eye contact, and Alte feels a thrill of victory curl through his chest at the admission. Jugend slams the glass bottoms-up on the wood, wiping a thumb across the corner of his lips as he sits back. 

“What's next?” 

“Alright, I’m claiming your dare,” Daniya declares, hooking her leg under herself as she leans one elbow up against the back cushion, scrutinising him. Jugend cocks his head, playing into her silent interrogation, egging her on. She straightens after a moment, smug. “You have to give someone a lap dance.” 

Jugend rolls his eyes, shifting his weight. “Predictable.” 

“Svetya gets to choose,” Daniya adds with a malicious smile, and Jugend pauses in his ascent. 

“Alte,” Svetya answers instantly, and Jugend glares at her. Alte can feel himself blushing, even if Daniya’s laugh wasn’t a dead giveaway. 

“Woah, hang on,” he says, spreading his hands plaintively as Jugend rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. There’s only maybe three feet between them, but he makes those few steps look like a predatory stalk. Alte has the brief, fleeting thought that he could probably launch himself out of the chair and clear a few feet before Jugend could stop him. But then he’d have to face Jugend again at some point, and Alte’s mind flickers back to his last ‘punishment’, on his knees playing Jugend’s coat rack. He stays in the chair. 

Jugend doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the suggestion. If anything, he looks smugly compliant to the task as he knocks Alte’s calves apart with a sharp nudge that stops the air in his throat. He digs a knee into the leather next to and behind Alte’s right hip, gripping the chair back on either side of Alte’s ears as he lowers himself onto Alte’s lap with a coy, amused smile. 

And suddenly they’re very close and Alte’s very hot and very drunk and his boss is sitting in his _lap-_

Jugend makes a short grinding motion with his hips that coaxes some of the blood out of Alte’s face, and he jolts with a high-pitched yelp. Jugend chuckles, baring two rows of very vicious teeth as he settles his weight, his hands sliding down to cup Alte’s throat and jaw. 

“You good, Sklavesman?” 

Alte doesn’t know where to put his hands. He’s feeling pretty light headed too, but that’s probably because he’s not actually breathing anymore, his breath trapped up in his throat as he tries to focus on anything but the heat of Jugend where they’re intertwined. 

Jugend’s thumbs catch under his chin, nails biting, and Alte chokes as his head snaps back against the leather, pinned under the man’s sharp hazel eyes as he's forced to meet his gaze. “I asked you a question,” Jugend purrs around that gleaming smile, and Alte does _not_ whimper. 

“Yeah,” he manages to get out, nodding with the small leeway he has left. The flats of Jugend’s thumbs are two points of hot heat against his mandible, searing into his skin. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

Jugend chuckles, leaning down to murmur his next words against the shell of Alte’s ear, and Alte pre-emptively tries to scramble through his catalog of mood-and-other-appendage-killers because _fuck_ there’s a lot happening right now. “Put your hands on my hips.” 

Alte shivers, hard. Jugend must feel it, because he stills, his breath hot in Alte’s ear as the frantic man swallows. He can _feel_ Jugend’s teeth scraping his skin when he smiles, and he scrambles desperately for something to say to write off the reaction. 

“Oh baby, don’t flatter me,” he simpers, and Alte makes a choked noise, sinking into the chair as Jugend’s grip constricts. “You don’t know what it does to me.” 

“Fuck,” he gasps, and tries to collect his scrambled thoughts. The alcohol is _not_ helping. He feels hot and wound up like a spring, threatening to snap. And the places where Jugend’s hands and thighs sear into him feel more dangerous than the knife had been between his fingers. “Fuck, I just-” 

“There’s not a lot of _dancing_ going on,” Daniya declares loudly, the disappointment stark in her tone. 

Jugend tosses her a glare over his shoulder, pulling back from Alte. He immediately mourns the loss of heat. “There’s not a lot of fucking room either.” 

Alte really hates his choice of adjective. 

“Dance,” Daniya drawls, stealing a shot for herself, and Jugend rolls his eyes. 

“Pushy,” he mutters, and shifts his ankles until he can hook his feet around Alte’s thighs, forcing his legs open wider as he deepens his sit. Alte’s hands involuntarily jump to Jugend’s legs, until Jugend’s fingers snap down to press bruising points into his wrists. He leverages them up, pinning them to the leather on either side of Alte’s head as he huffs a surprised breath. 

Jugend smirks, and rolls his hips, dipping until their faces are inches apart. 

“You got something to complain about, now would be the time.” 

Alte meets his eyes with an even stare, summoning confidence from wells he didn’t know he had. “My wrists hurt.” 

Jugend looks mildly impressed. “Good,” he says flatly, and does that thing with his hips again. Alte tries to cant away from the sensation, until he realises between Jugend’s knees fused to his hips and his thighs pinned to the arms of the chair, he’s got nowhere to go. He makes a dejected sound when he realises, and Jugend laughs, the sound high and trilling. 

It sort of takes some of the air out of Alte’s lungs. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Jugend laugh like that before, and it strikes him as an almost carefree sound. He wonders how often Jugend gets to laugh like that, and resolves to make him to do it again. 

His awe must be written across his features, because Jugend seems a little embarrassed under its attention, tightening his grip on Alte's wrists absently. 

“Think you can follow instructions this time, if I let go of your hands?” Jugend asks, and Alte’s nodding before he even consciously decides to. Jugend’s smile widens. “That’s good. Put them on my hips.” 

They snap down the instant Jugend relinquishes his grip, falling to his hips and God, it’s so much _worse_ when Alte can feel the gyrating through his palms _and_ his crotch. He digs his nails into the bared peek of Jugend’s hips, and the reaction he gets is definitely approval. 

He feels like he’s stumbling headfirst into an unspoken discussion on the man’s many kinks, and Alte’s surprised to find he isn’t totally freaked out by it. He puts it down to the alcohol’s numbing effects on rational thought. 

Which he’s running in short supply of, because Jugend is arching and tilting his hips in a controlled display of dancing, every roll and shift of muscle visible to Alte through all of the six inch distance. He’s sure it’s done sarcastically, but Jugend looks like he’s putting a bit too much thought into it - and getting a bit too much enjoyment out of it - for the dance to be entirely satire. 

Daniya materialises beside Alte's head, over the back of the chair, startling him out of his stunned hypnotism. “You poor bastard,” she bemoans, and holds a shot to Alte's lips. He sucks it down without protest, trying not to acknowledge the grin that Jugend shares with Daniya above him. “You're a fucking tease,” she chastises Jugend, whose grin widens. 

“Guilty as charged,” he admits, and doesn't pause. 

Daniya laughs, producing another shot seemingly from thin air. Alte's really losing track of how many they've each had at this point. He's certain it's too many for how many hours they've been here though. 

“Open,” she instructs, dangling the shot above Alte's nose, and he does. She doesn't tip it back into his mouth though. Alte frowns for the briefest moment as she lowers it between his open lips before he understands, and closes his teeth around the glass, skull flat back against the chair as he shifts to find Jugend's gaze. 

Jugend's _blushing_. Honest to God blushing, and Alte feels unbelievably powerful with the realisation that _he_ did that. Then Jugend stills a little, clearing his throat as if in concentration. 

His hands come back to the sides of Alte's throat, and Alte's mind can't supply any thought other than _possessive_ as he leans over him. Alte's fixed between his palms like a vice, held in place as Jugend stoops down to take the shot. 

Alte's pretty sure he stops breathing for a few minutes when Jugend's lips brush against his, prying the shot off him. Then Jugend shifts a palm down to the base of Alte's neck and straightens, throwing it back in the same motion and swallowing the liquid whole. 

Jugend looks fucking ethereal, the dimness swathing him as he plucks the empty glass from his lips and smirks down at Alte. “You owe me a tip,” he says, and disengages from Alte's limbs, climbing back to his feet with a grace that's really undeserved, considering how many shots he's had. 

“My boss doesn't pay me enough,” Alte quips back when air finally reaches his lungs again, and Jugend's just a little bit impressed with that response. 

“Don't push you luck, Sklavesman.” 

“Yes, sir,” he mutters reverently, but Jugend still catches the words as he straightens. Alte's the first to look away, nodding pointedly at Svetya. “You're next.” 

“I suppose it's only fair if you get to choose,” she says to Jugend as he reclaims his seat. 

The game continues like that, and ends with Daniya nearly breaking a bar stool while trying to extract the bartender's number. Alte's another three shots down, but he's been holding back as much as he's able. 

Jugend is completely trashed, his shirt open to expose his clavicle and his cheeks a heated red. Alte calls it a night when Jugend nearly dives into the coffee table reaching for another shot. He steadies the swaying man, nudging the tray away from him and towards Svetya. “And that's us done.” 

“Normally I'd disagree,” Svetya responds, and helps him get Jugend on his feet. “But you are shitfaced, little brother. And I'm pretty sure you've got meetings tomorrow.” She smiles at Alte, and there's a lot of gratitude in that smile. “Get him home safely. Thanks for coming out with us tonight.” 

“It's my job,” Alte replies, because he doesn't know what else to say, and lets Svetya shift her portion of Jugend's weight onto his shoulders. 

“Good luck,” she offers as they depart. 


	15. Traducement

Getting Jugend up the narrow flight of stairs is nothing short of an ordeal for both of them, and Alte's immeasurably grateful to see the sleek black sedan waiting on the curb when they step out into the mid-morning air. 

He bundles Jugend into the back seat with only minor delay, and slides in next to him, shooting the driver a look of gratitude. “Take us back to Goose.” 

“No,” Jugend slurs from his seat, slumping against the door. He wraps a hand around the driver's seat, leaning forwards to assert, “I want to go to North Milwaukee Avenue, near the flatwoods.” 

Alte's brow pinches in concern. “We need to get you home.” 

“After,” Jugend says flatly, and there's no room for discussion in that tone. Alte clenches his jaw, but nods at the enquiring driver, who turns the engine over. 

It's a short ride uptown, but Jugend's a bit clearer by the time they roll to a stop just off the main road. Jugend alights immediately onto the empty bitumen, and Alte hurries to follow, stooping as the driver rolls down his window. 

“Just wait here,” he instructs with faint trepidation, and follows Jugend up the sidewalk. “Where are we going?” Alte asks once he's in-step with the long-legged man. 

Jugend doesn't respond, his gaze fixed on the black iron gates that are materialising out of the darkness up ahead. Behind them, the headlights of the car dim, dousing them in shadow. Jugend doesn't falter on his slow march. 

Alte gets his answer when they reach the gates. He can't read the metal embossed sign on the column, but Alte can see the stones jutting like teeth out of the green fields behind it. 

“Where are we?” Alte demands, knowing full well what he's looking at. 

“This is where he's buried,” Jugend murmurs, and puts a hand on the gate. It only comes up to their chests, and Jugend turns to Alte with a giddy grin. “Give me a leg up.” 

“No,” Alte says immediately, mortified, and Jugend shrugs, turning back to the gate and bracing to launch himself over it. 

Alte briefly pictures Kanin's furious expression when he has to explain to him tomorrow why Jugend's got gravel buried in his face, and curses under his breath. 

“Come here,” he snarls, lacing his hands, and Jugend smiles as he puts a hand on Alte's shoulder, sliding his foot into the brace. He's not as heavy as he looks, so it's not a hard feat to get him over the wrought iron, but Alte still holds his breath until he hears Jugend’s dress shoes crunch gravel on the other side. 

“You coming?” he asks, and starts heading deeper into the cemetery. Alte swears and boosts himself over the gate, dropping down on the other side and casting about in the darkness. He can't see for shit, but he can hear Jugend up ahead, so he hurries to keep up. 

Jugend doesn’t speak for the whole trek across the cemetery, but he evidently knows where to go, and when they round on a solitary row of tombstones that all read ‘Erdefunfte’, Alte understands why. There’s a few more plots of undisturbed earth further along the grass, but the most recent addition forms a wall between the occupied and the to-be, a solitary sentinel. 

The headstone is bare, the marble plaque not yet affixed to it, but there's a placeholder there. Alte's been memorising enough recurring words that he can tell it reads  _ B. Erdefunfte _ in neat type print. The dirt has been churned by an excavator, and Alte can still see the imprints of a shovel where its been packed down. 

“You know what he said to me when I came out and told him I was gay?” Jugend says softly, his voice terribly quiet in the emptiness of the night. Alte looks up at him, concerned. “He said, I couldn’t be. Not ‘I don't want you to be’ or ‘That’s not possible’. He said I couldn’t be gay. Like I wasn’t allowed to be.” 

The bitterness drips from every word as Jugend steps off the gravel pathway to stand directly beside the headstone. His expression is hard to read in the dark, but Alte can make out the tightness of his jaw and the downturn of his lips. He doesn’t want to know what emotion Jugend is broadcasting in those depthless green eyes. 

“Our relationship sort of went downhill from there,” Jugend admits with a sprinkle of mirth. “It was like he became a completely different person. He went from being my favourite uncle, the one I’d had my first drink with, the one who had introduced me to this life, had mentored me in the family trade - to being this complete stranger. He treated me like a totally different person. Went from telling me how the family needed good, strong young leaders, to telling my mother and my uncle that I was ‘unfit’ to succeed him.” 

The breeze picks up, cold and sharp and hinting at the beginnings of autumn. Alte hunches his shoulders and regrets leaving his jacket back in the car. Jugend’s only dressed in his dress shirt and waistcoat too, but he doesn’t seem as affected by the chill. He squares his shoulders, his chin dipping slightly towards the tumultuous sheet of dirt. 

“Then he went and betrayed my trust,” he says, his tone hard and flat and roiling with pain. It makes Alte’s head reel. “He decided I needed  _ punishing _ for being unfit, for being a weak substitute. For trying to steal his place at the table. And he used what I had entrusted him with against me.” 

Jugend’s features look grim when Alte shuffles closer, glancing around the cemetery grounds for any other sign of movement. They’re desperately alone out here with the unforgiving wind and the stagnant tombstones. When Jugend speaks again, Alte’s heart ties itself into new knots in his throat. 

“Bet you didn’t think we’d find ourselves here. Reminds me of all those promises you made, everything you denied over your  _ dead _ body. You probably didn’t think I’d outlive you. Probably were hoping I’d off myself and do the family a favour. Bet you were fucking pissed the day they gave me your men and told you to take a hike. Retirement would have suited you, if you could’ve been less of a cunt. And now I’m here and you’re there, and no one has any reason to begrudge the great Bieder Erdefunfte the credit he’s due. What an amazing life you’ve led. All those amazing feats everyone keeps telling me about, and I can’t say  _ anything _ about it. There’s no one left now but us, and I’ll probably die with it, just like you did. The awful things we did to each other, and no one’ll ever know. So I guess that means you win, in the end.” 

His expression clears then, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But I’m alive, so there’s that. And it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let myself die without seeing you brought to justice, at least in part, for what you did to me. So I hope you’re listening.” 

Jugend’s hand falls to his fly. Alte makes an aborted attempt at stopping him, but gives up on the notion halfway to reaching for him, and stubbornly fixes his gaze on the rows of headstones back the way they’d come. 

“And I hope you see this, whichever afterlife you ended up in. You deserve it.” 

Alte glares into the darkness as if he can make the path back to the gate resurface from the gloom. He keeps his back stoically to Jugend until he hears the zip of his fly again, and when he turns back around, Jugend looks so unbelievably dejected that Alte can’t help but wind an arm over his shoulders. Jugend tips into him, lets him hurry them back to the limousine before someone finds them out here in the middle of the night, up to no good. 

They spend the car ride back to Goose in absolute silence, and the elevator ride up to the apartment is broken only by the soft melodic chime of the doors. Jugend’s devolved into a half-sleep half-drunk state by the time Alte steers him over the threshold, and he sincerely doubts the man has it in him to get to his bed under his own power. 

Alte manages to get the pair of them into the surprisingly modest master bedroom without too much trouble, and shoves Jugend into the sitting chair in the corner of the room so he can stoop to unlace his shoes. Jugend watches him the whole while through half-lidded green eyes, soft and compliant under his ministrations. 

“You’re very quiet,” he says finally, apropos of nothing, and Alte spares him a brief glance as he sets the oxfords aside and straightens up. 

“Did you want me to say something?” he responds, matching Jugend’s hushed tone. 

Jugend doesn’t answer for a while, but turns his head to follow Alte’s movements as he helps Jugend shuck his jacket and then bends to undo his buttons with clinical detachment. Jugend’s breath is warm on his face, but Alte keeps his eyes down. “Alte?” 

“Yes?” 

“You looked good before.” 

Alte pauses, glancing up with a frown. “Before?” 

Jugend waves a distracted hand. “Earlier. At the bar. With the shots. We should do shots more often.” 

Alte smiles wryly to himself and peels Jugend’s shirt off his shoulders. He hangs it on a coat hanger, because he’s pretty sure someone will skin him alive if they find a shirt that expensive on Jugend’s floor. When he turns back, Jugend is slumped back in the chair, still watching him. 

“Come here,” he purrs softly, and Alte doesn’t move. His brow pinches, and he looks abysmally betrayed for the barest second. “Alte?” 

He sighs and returns to stand before Jugend. “You may be drunk,” Alte warns him, “but you’re taking your own pants off.” 

Jugend’s hands flash out, lacing around Alte’s hips and dragging him forward. Alte starts and flings his arms out, hitching a knee up between Jugend’s thighs to steady himself. And stop himself from capsizing onto a very drunk mafia don. Alte glares down when Jugend chuckles unevenly. “You want me to take my pants off, huh?” 

Alte scowls and tries to pull away, but Jugend’s got fingers hooked in his belt. “You’re drunk,” Alte reiterates, and sees the flash of Jugend’s teeth. He can break Jugend’s grip if he has to; Alte’s pretty sure he’s stronger than Jugend in a fair fight, and Jugend’s currently too intoxicated to sit upright right now. 

But Jugend’s snaring him with that sharp, alluring gaze. That one that reminds Alte of all those adages from the funeral about resisting temptation. Jugend’s smile grows in millimetres. 

“What’s the matter?” he murmurs, and Alte can feel how hot his hands are through his dress shirt. “Don’t appreciate a little special attention?” 

Then Jugend’s fingers trace the leather belt round to the buckle, tightening, and Alte blanches. 

“No,” he says, and reaches for Jugend’s wrists. 

He’s stupidly quick for someone so uncoordinated. Alte’s belt’s open by the time he circles fingers around Jugend’s limbs and jerks his hands to either side. And then Alte realises he doesn’t have a spare hand to fix himself up with. 

Jugend seems to notice this too, because he grins up wickedly and leans towards Alte, pressing a lackadaisical kiss to the strip of Alte’s stomach that had been exposed when his shirt had ridden up. A fission laces up Alte’s spine, and he lurches back with a panicked glare. 

He abandons Jugend’s wrists in favour of bolting for the door. Jugend’s slurred chuckle still filters over to him before he can press the wood closed. “Goodnight, Alte.” 


	16. Ailment

Alte wakes at mid-morning to the sound of Jugend upheaving in the next room. He rolls onto his feet, taking a moment to properly acknowledge the way his brain is pressing into the inside of his skull, and then he heads into the kitchen. 

Jugend’s thankfully gotten his stomach somewhat under control by the time Alte steps into the bathroom with a glass of water and two aspirin, which he sets on the tile and hands to Jugend respectively. The man downs them without a word of thanks, throwing the pills back and washing them down with water. 

He looks ill, his forehead swathed in a sheen of sweat. He’s cradling the toilet bowl between his knees, one bared shoulder pressed to the cold tile of the wall. Jugend’s shirtless, but still wearing his dress pants, looking absolutely dishevelled. 

Alte doesn’t stand up to much better scrutiny. He collapsed into his bed in his trousers and button-down, and both are crumpled beyond recognition. He stares down at Jugend as he sways over the bowl, gripping the porcelain with mad fervour. 

“You feeling alright?” he asks gently. 

Jugend’s flat tone surprises him. It’s characteristically harsh, and Alte immediately recoils from it. “Whatever you think you heard last night,” Jugend warns without turning to glance at him. “Forget it. You didn’t hear it, understand me?” 

Alte feels like he’s just been slapped. The reprimand has come from nowhere, and he scrambles to work out where he misstepped. “What-?” 

“Don’t ask questions,” Jugend snaps. “It’s not a hard concept to grasp. Do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut. If you can manage that, you can call Kanin. Tell him to get over here.” 

Alte opens his mouth, and then closes it, turning sharply on his heel. He doesn’t want to be in the cold, clinical frost of Jugend’s presence. It feels like a punishment for a transgression Alte wasn’t even aware he’d committed. He feels like a child again, forced to work out what exactly he’s begging forgiveness for. It makes him feel unnervingly small, and he’s spent too long bricking over his past to let himself feel like that again. 

His phone’s relatively easy to find. He’d remembered to put it on the charger sometime last night in his fatigued stupor, so the full charge icon greets him brightly when he unlocks it. 

Kanin picks up after the second ring. “How’re you feeling?” 

Alte bypasses that question with a bluntness that doesn’t feel like his. “He feels like shit. He wants you to get over here.” 

Kanin pauses for the barest moment, before saying, “Okay. I’ll bring breakfast.” 

Alte hangs up on him, tossing his mobile back onto the counter and taking the opportunity to strip out of his dress shirt. He wants to take a shower, but Jugend’s not going to be parting from the toilet any time soon, and Alte doesn’t want to be in the same room as him unless he absolutely has to. 

He trudges to the bedroom to rifle through the wardrobe, and pulls the first suit he finds off the rack. He leaves the jacket on the bed and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, steeling himself before he returns to the bathroom. 

He stands just inside the doorway and folds his hands into the small of his back, jaw set. 

Jugend glances up at him with fleeting confusion and broad irritation. “What are you doing?” 

“Keeping my mouth shut,” Alte answers without looking down at him. He’s amazed that he manages to keep the petulance from his tone. 

Jugend senses it anyway, because his eyes flash and he turns away. “Fine. Stand there then.” 

They stay locked in that stalemate until Kanin arrives, during which time Jugend reclaims some of his constitution. Enough for him to pivot and slot himself against the wall so he can look up at Kanin where he leans against the sink. 

Kanin’s gaze keeps flickering to Alte, which he pointedly refuses to meet, his sight not alleviating from the tiles directly above Jugend's head. He listens to the pair of them discuss the meetings Jugend’s already missed and the handful more he’s going to blow off today. Churns through and compartmentalises his anger while they work out their rescheduling. 

Jugend sends him out to make coffee partway through the discussion, which he does without complaint. And then again when Jugend demands one for Kanin. Doesn’t even pretend to ask Alte if he’d like anything, so he resumes his silent post, aware that Jugend’s features pull into a scowl when he does. 

He’s almost managed to stuff his anger far, deep down, when Jugend’s gaze passes over him casually and says, “He can have leave if he wants, after last night.” 

It snaps the flimsy cordoning tape Alte’s managed to wrap around his rage, and his eyes snap down immediately to fix on Jugend, who’s already launching into a new topic. Both he and Kanin fall abruptly silent when Alte opens his mouth. 

“Have you got a problem with me?” Alte snaps, and Jugend stares at him, green gaze flickering with subdued anger. 

“Why would you think I have a problem with you?” Jugend says carefully, and Alte's very aware that he's stepping into a fight. He doesn't particularly care. He's been churning over the same thing for the past hour, and he's too irritated not to take the opportunity to gain some new ground. 

“Because you've been treating me like a stray that wandered in all goddamn morning,” Alte points out sharply, and watches some of Jugend’s anger flounder. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad sign. “So do we have a problem I don’t know about? Because if we do, I’d rather get it over and done with now, so I can get on with my fucking day.” 

Jugend and Kanin both look at him, and Alte doesn’t back down. The agitation is sizzling in his stomach, his nerves flaring and waning as the silence stretches. Jugend finally opens his mouth. 

Alte’s phone rings. The shrill tone slices through the quiet, and he frowns. Because the only people who have his number are the two other people in this room. He doesn’t recognise the caller ID either, so he swipes to answer the call and raises it to his ear. 

“Hello?” 

“Alte?” the voice on the other end asks with broad panic, and Alte’s stomach falls out of the world, because he knows that voice. 

“ _Ruhe?_ ” he demands, and Jugend’s brow pinches in curiosity. “What are you- How did you get this number?” Alte’s world readjusts through his surprise, and he pitches his voice lower. “What’s wrong, what happened?” 

“Irre’s gone,” his little brother says, and Alte feels panic seize him. 

“What do you mean he’s gone? Ruhe, where did he go?” 

“He and Weisch got into a fight,” Ruhe babbles, and Alte feels his chest tighten with red hot anger at his stepfather’s name. “He really hurt Irre, and then this morning, when we woke up, Irre was gone. He must have left last night, and he cleaned out his room, and Weisch is _pissed_ -” 

Alte turns away from Kanin and Jugend, who look like they’re expecting an explanation, and leaves the bathroom for the privacy of the living-dining room. “Where do you think he went?” he asks Ruhe as evenly as he can. 

Ruhe makes a hopeless sound into the receiver. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even leave a note. Alte, I don’t know if he even has any money. How’s he going to eat? He’ll starve on his own. I don’t think he took anything from the pantry.” 

“Okay,” Alte cuts him off, before he can work himself into a deeper spiral. “I need you to do me a favour. Are you at home?” 

“Yes.” 

Jugend appears in the doorway, watching him silently, and Alte focuses his gaze on the tile so he doesn’t have to deal with that right now. “Go into Irre’s room for me and move the bedside table.” 

He can hear Ruhe moving through the house, the sounds of an argument growing in volume and then fading as he moves into Irre’s room and shuts the door behind himself. 

“Okay, I’m here,” Ruhe allows, and the ambience changes when he puts Alte on speakerphone to shift the end table. “Which panel?” 

“Third in from the wall,” Alte says, and glances up at Jugend while he waits for Ruhe to dislodge the timber floorboard. Jugend crooks an eyebrow at him, but says nothing, so Alte starts pacing. 

“There’s envelopes,” Ruhe elaborates, shuffling through them. “They’ve got a bank address on them.” 

“Yeah, I sent them,” Alte says, and angles his lower back against the kitchen counter so he stops moving restlessly about the joint. “Have they got any cheques in them?” 

“No, they're all empty,” Ruhe confirms after a moment of shuffling paper and crinkling plastic. “What are they?” 

“They’re cheques from my work account. I’ve been sending them to Irre for safekeeping.” 

“How’d you get a bank account?” Ruhe asks after a moment’s pause, and Alte winces. His brothers had better luck obtaining birth certificates than he did, so opening bank accounts and lines of credit should never be an issue for them. But they all know that Alte’s never been able to accept anything but under the table cash payments for the odd jobs he runs. 

“Got a decent job this time,” he mutters, feeling Jugend’s gaze on him, and turns his face away for the illusion of privacy it offers. 

“How much were you sending him?” 

“Fuck, uh,” Alte scrubs at his hairline and squints. “Three hundred a month? For five months? That's…” 

“Fifteen hundred,” Ruhe supplies curtly, and Alte can’t curb the absent swell of pride for his younger brother. Ruhe’s always been a smart kid, and when Alte had been living at home, he’d fought tooth and nail to make sure he was given a proper education. Had made sure Ruhe’d gotten into a decent middle school before he’d run off to Illinois for better work. 

“Sounds about right,” Alte says in a small voice. It’s a lot of money for Irre to have run off with. Gives him plenty of options to skip town, even skip state. Means they have to cast a much broader net if they’re going to work out where the fuck he could have gone. 

“Alte, that’s a lot of money,” Ruhe says in hushed, horrified awe. “He could go just about anywhere with that much money.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Alte says shortly, and resists the urge to start chewing at his nails. He’d kicked that habit years ago. 

“We have to find him,” Ruhe says in a small voice, leafing through the envelopes absently. It’s a nervous tick he’s had since he was a little kid, counting things, and Alte freezes. 

“What’s the address on the envelopes?” 

“What?” 

“The return address, what is it?” 

Ruhe flips an envelope over, the paper rustling through the connection as he asks, “Why?” 

“I have the bank send the cheques out automatically every month. There should be an Illinois address on the back of those envelopes.” 

“Okay, yeah, you got your phone?” 

“Hang on,” Alte says, and fumbles to bring up the voice-to-text function on his cell. His screen jams between the two apps, and he grunts in frustration. Jugend appears at his side with a pen and paper, leaning against the marble countertop, and Alte pauses. 

“Read it aloud,” Jugend orders without looking up, and Alte nods, repeating the instruction down the line. 

“10 South Dearborn Street,” Ruhe says, and Alte repeats it back to him, eyes on Jugend’s neat scrawl, “Dearborn with an E-A. 8th floor. Chicago, Illinois.” 

“Thank you,” Alte says when Jugend sets the pen down. 

“You think he’s going to Illinois?” Ruhe asks. 

“I don't know. But he's definitely got enough to afford a Greyhound. And it's the sort of dumbass thing he'd do.” 

Ruhe lets out a strangled laugh. “Well, it's all we've got, isn't it?” He pauses as the commotion outside the bedroom swells, and then he says in a low, rushed tone, “I've gotta go, Alte. Text me if he shows up, please?” 

“Yeah, no problem, kiddo,” Alte promises, and then the dial tone is bleating in his ear. 

Jugend’s watching him when he ends the call, his hazel gaze fixed on the ‘Unknown Caller’ icon that fades from the screen. 

“Who’re you sending money to?” he asks softly, and Alte doesn't know why, but he feels guilty. 

“My brothers,” Alte responds quietly. “In Wisconsin.” 

“From your work account?” 

“Yeah,” Alte says, quieter. 

Alte doesn't know how they managed it without a social security number, but the day he'd started working under Bieder, he'd been handed the details for a JP Morgan bank account from a branch in the middle of Chicago and told all his work cheques would be deposited directly into it. He'd been new, but experienced enough to know not to ask any further questions than that. 

Jugend hums shortly. “You’re going to have to stop doing that. Talk to Kanin; he’ll make sure my accountant sets up a secondary account for your brothers.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alte mutters, and Jugend’s exhale is amused. 

He straightens, dropping the pen on the granite countertop. “Let me guess: you’d like the day off for personal reasons?” 

Alte flexes his jaw, the guilt swelling in his throat. Reserved panic flutters in his gut, so much more potent. “Yes, please.” 

“No,” Jugend says curtly, and shoves his hands into his pockets as he steps away from the counter. Alte blinks at him, a protest already rising in his throat. It dies when Jugend continues, “We’re going to have breakfast first, while I look up the Wisconsin Greyhound schedules. If he’s already at that address, it’ll be character-building for him to wait a few hours more.” 

Jugend fixes him with a sharp look, and Alte fumbles for a response. “Thank you.” 

Jugend’s features soften, but the eyes stay sharp. “Get changed. I’m sick of seeing suits,” he declares, and heads back down the hallway. 

Alte hurries to follow, shoving his phone into his trouser pocket. “Yes, sir.” 


	17. Abandonment

The sun’s beating down something fierce by the time the pair of them roll up to the curb outside Chase Tower, and Alte’s worked up a good head of steam on him. Jugend kills the ignition and peers over the edge of his shades at the architectural facade, dissatisfied. 

“Wait here, please,” Alte mutters, and shoves open the door, stepping out into the cloying heat. Jugend gets out anyway, but takes up a casual lean against the driver’s side door, shuffling the keys in his grip, so Alte assumes he’s going to stay with the vehicle. 

There’s a delinquent leaning up against the grey brick outside the branch with a cap pulled low over his features, looking five seconds from being reported for loitering. Alte makes a beeline towards him, snagging him by the arm with a grip that is bruising at best, and drags him across the sidewalk to a string of protests. 

“Get in the car,” he orders over a glower, and Irre yanks his arm back. 

“No,” he answers stubbornly, eyeing the sleek black paint job with distrust. His gaze flickers back to the pavement. “Where have you been? I’ve been here for hours.” 

“Trying to interpret the clues in the letter you left behind. Oh no, wait, you didn’t leave a letter, or anything, Irre,” Alte snarls. “What the hell were you thinking? Why are you in Chicago? You can’t be here. You have to go back home-” 

“I’m not going back,” Irre yelps angrily, eyes flashing as he finally looks up and meets Alte’s gaze. Alte freezes. 

Because Irre has a black eye, and a pattern of bruises down his cheekbone that suggests he’s been hit more than once, some of them older than fresh. For a glorious, visceral moment, Alte sees red. 

“He hit you?” he confirms in a low, dangerous tone, and Irre nods stiffly. Alte clenches his hands into fists, imagining them wrapped around his stepfather’s throat. “If I ever see that fuckwit again, I-” 

“What, you gonna start another fight?” Irre sneers, and Alte glares at him. “Yeah, that went so well last time.” Irre shuffles his shoes across the pavement, looking frightened beneath his thick bluster. “Where have you _been,_ Alte?” 

“Working,” he answers bluntly, and Irre’s lip curls back. 

“What about us, huh? Were you planning on coming back, or were you just gonna leave us with that bastard? He hits Ruhe too, you know,” he sneers, and Alte swallows down the guilt that rears in him at the spat confession. “And Scheun. Mom had to go and explain to the school why he had bruises down his arm last week, because that _prick_ put his hands on him again. Nearly broke his fucking arm. Where were you? Enjoying the city life?” 

Jugend snorts from his recline against the car door, and Irre’s gaze zeroes in on him with violent intent. 

“Who the fuck are you? His boyfriend or something?” 

Before Alte can shut that conversation down, Jugend replies casually, “Sure.” 

Alte turns to fix him with a reproachful look while Irre glances between them. “Is that true?” 

“No. Get in the car or I’m leaving you here,” Alte threatens bluntly, and yanks open the door with a bit too much force. “If you don’t come with me, you’ll starve out here.” 

Irre looks like he very much wants to protest that, but he also looks worn down as fuck, and Alte has to wonder when the last time the kid actually had a solid meal in him was. 

He folds into the car, sliding across the leather seats as Alte follows him. Jugend takes the driver’s seat without a backwards glance, and Alte tosses the bag of donuts they’d snagged on the way in Irre’s general direction, stifling his smile as his younger brother fumbles them. 

“What’s this?” 

“Breakfast,” Alte answers curtly, and Irre’s expression folds into unbridled relief. Alte feels a sharp pang in his gut at the sight. 

“Where are we going?” Irre asks around a mouthful, glowering at the back of Jugend’s head. 

“My place,” Jugend replies simply, and Alte has to wonder why he’s being so secretive about everything. He supposes Irre is an unknown factor, but the teenager doesn’t strike Alte as a threat, even objectively. He can’t reconcile Jugend’s casual informality, or why he’s holding Irre at arm’s length. Especially with how he was treating Alte this morning. 

“You live with him?” Irre mumbles, directing the question at Alte. He’s too busy scavenging through the paper bag to look up. 

“Yeah, sort of,” Alte replies, watching him, and Irre crooks a brow at him. 

“You either live with him or you don’t. Which is it?” 

“He travels a lot,” Jugend supplies with a private smile. 

“No, I don’t,” Alte corrects with a frown, glancing over at Jugend. His gaze doesn’t part from the windscreen, but the corner of his lips hitches up another notch. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Irre says from the backseat with equal parts confusion and irritation. 

“Here’s a better question,” Jugend cuts in before Alte can respond, gaze flicking up to the rearview mirror. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing taking your brother away from his goddamn job? You think those cheques are just freebies? That they just roll in, like he doesn’t have to earn them?” 

Irre looks indignant, face flushing with blatant confrontation. “What the fuck do you have to do with _our_ family’s business? You monitor Alte’s pay or something, do you?” 

Jugend’s gaze flashes with the challenge, and Alte dives in before this can spiral out of hand. “Next person who says fuck in my presence is getting kicked out of the fucking car, understand me?” he snaps. 

Irre looks cowed, thank God, so Alte fixes a pointed gaze on Jugend. He expects a retort, maybe an ‘It’s _my_ car’ from the mafioso, but he just looks contrite, and leans over to squeeze Alte’s hand. “Sorry, babe, I’ll stop.” 

Alte blinks at him, thoughts spinning as he tries to reconcile exactly what’s happening. Jugend pulls back after a long, cloying moment, readjusting his hands on the steering wheel, and Alte can feel Irre’s suspicious gaze on his slack jaw. He snaps it shut, and frowns out the windscreen for the duration of the ride. 

Irre hovers in the living room when they arrive, gaze flickering over the pristine furniture with faint discomfort. Alte squeezes his shoulder as he moves past, leading him to the lounges. 

“Take a seat. I’ll fix you something to eat,” Alte offers, and Irre slumps into the cushions, looking small. Jugend sprawls unceremoniously across the other lounge, and Alte pauses for the barest second before realising that drawing attention to it will cause a scene he’s not prepared to diffuse. 

“So what are you doing in Chicago?” Jugend asks curiously, and Alte scowls at the backsplash as he moves about the kitchen. 

Irre sounds a little stunned. “Are you kidding me?” Jugend must shrug, because he continues, “I have a black eye.” 

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

Alte swallows harshly in the silence that follows, sneaking a glance at the pair of them. Irre looks rigid and wary in his seat. Jugend isn’t relenting, his posture casual, uninterested. 

“Babe,” he says suddenly, making Alte jolt as he grins over. “Can you fix me a coffee?” 

“Yeah,” Alte says after a moment, nodding. “No problem. Irre, you want something?” 

Irre ignores him, that suspicion back in his tone when he asks, “How long have you been dating my brother?” 

“How long do you think?” Jugend retorts, and Alte feels his pulse hitch up a notch at the sheer confidence in that delivery. He hears Jugend shift against the cushion. “You know, he hasn’t told me much about his brothers. You wanna clear up this uninvited visit for me?” 

Irre must be scowling, because his tone is dark when he says, “I left home. I’m not going back.” 

“Because you got hit?” Jugend asks, sharp as a whip, and Alte tenses. 

“Yeah, that’d be our stepdad,” Irre sneers, lip curling back. “Guy likes to take a hand to anyone smaller than him. Including our mother.” 

“Did he hit Alte?” Alte glances up at that question, notes the solemn hush of Jugend’s tone and the black hatred in Irre’s gaze. 

“Alte hit him too,” Irre answers with, and turns that gaze on Alte. His words are directed at Jugend when he asks, “He didn’t tell you?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Jugend answers with a tone Alte can’t discern the intentions of. 

Irre’s expression is dark. “Funny. Must be nice to have a blank slate.” 

Alte’s chest heaves with the words he wants to say to that, but Jugend beats him to the punch again, words flat and firm. “Yeah, it must be. And Alte’s worked hard to keep it that way. You’d begrudge him that?” 

“Why does he get to pretend it’s not happening?” Irre snaps. “Why does he get to leave us there, with _him_ -?” 

“He’s trying to earn a living,” Jugend cuts in flatly, “so he can afford to get you out of there for good. Quit being an impatient brat, and thank your damn brother.” 

“ _Thank_ him?!” 

“Shut up, both of you,” Alte snaps, leaning into the counter as he slams the coffee cups down. “Yes, I ran away. And from you and Ruhe and Scheun. I wasn’t picking up enough jobs with the Frizellis, and I didn’t want to deal with the shit going down at home, alright? That was stupid and I was a coward, but I don’t fucking regret it, okay, Irre? I’m trying my best to make the most of a shit situation, and I’m trying to help you out. I’m sorry that it’s not enough. I’ll make it work. I-I’ll make more money someway else, alright?” 

“It’s not about the money,” Irre says flatly, and Alte starts at the chill in his tone. 

“What do you mean it’s not about the money? That’s the whole reason I’m here, Irre. For you guys. To make things better for you.” 

Irre opens his mouth to retort, and then settles for glaring at his lap. “Whatever.” 

Alte can’t work out what he’s thinking from the hunch of his shoulders, and quite frankly, he’s tired of trying to dissect cryptic messages. He sighs and turns his gaze on Jugend, letting his fatigue show in his stare. 

“Can I talk to you?” Alte asks. “In private?” 

Jugend shrugs, and peels himself off the lounge to follow Alte into the bedroom. Alte closes the door behind them, rounding on him as Jugend shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What do you mean?” Jugend replies lightly. 

Alte glares, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. “Don’t do that. This is my brother. Why are you pretending like we’re… I don’t even know, like we’re an item?” 

“Why not?” Jugend quips, sitting down on the neatly pressed bed covers. He shrugs under Alte’s continuing glower. “It’s amusing to me.” 

“It’s not for me,” Alte retorts sharply, and Jugend’s smile fades into a tight-lipped smirk. “I don’t understand what this is. I don’t know if I pissed you off or something, but I can’t work out what I did to deserve this. And I don’t know what you want me to do to fix whatever I fucked up, but I’d really appreciate you just fucking telling me, and I’ll do it.” 

“You think I’m punishing you,” Jugend states. 

“Yes,” Alte agrees tightly. 

“That’s a pretty unfounded assumption.” 

“That’s because everything is a fucking guessing game with you,” Alte snaps. “I don’t know what’s going on half the time around you, but do you hear me complaining? I’m getting a bit sick of thinking that I’m doing well only to get reprimanded, and then thinking I’ve done something wrong only to be told it’s all in my fucking head. Which is it? Are you treating me like shit because I genuinely did something wrong, or do you just like watching me scramble to catch up? Is it amusing for you or something?” 

“It might be,” Jugend purrs, and the very thin tightrope of patience Alte’s been toeing snaps. 

He spins on his heel, stalking for the door. Jugend beats him to it, turning him sharply and pressing him back against the wood before he can even grab the handle. Alte’s boxed in on either side by his splayed arms, which he’s sure is an intentional attempt to unnerve him, but he summons enough rage to glower up at the man as Jugend stares down plaintively. 

All the morning’s frustrations rush up on him like a blast wave. 

“Really?” Alte snaps. Resists the urge to kick his kneecap in and take the man down to the floor just to prove a point. Because Jugend is his _boss_ and Alte’s a _professional_ , goddamnit. 

“Sorry,” he responds, entirely insincerely. 

“Try again,” Alte orders, and Jugend finally seems to clue into the fact that he’s not playing around. He deflates slightly, bringing them to a more even height. 

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Jugend says softly, the concession surprising Alte. Not enough to dull the anger entirely, but it’s a start. Alte doesn’t move away, and Jugend doesn’t pull back. “That wasn’t my intention.” 

“Then quit toying with me,” Alte grits out between clenched teeth, and Jugend sighs. 

“Okay, fine. Start from the start. What gave you the impression that I was toying with you?” 

“Golly, I don’t know,” Alte gasps sarcastically. “Somewhere between you giving me a lap dance and trying to go down on me, probably.” 

Jugend’s brow skyrockets, and Alte comes to the very sudden, plummeting realisation that he doesn’t remember. It makes him irrationally angry. 

“Fuck, really? You don't remember?” Jugend gives a slow, stiff shake of his head. There’s a vague sheen of panic behind that closeted gaze, and Alte throws his head back in exasperation, dropping it against the wood of the door. “You drunk bastard. You tried to go down on me last night, after I managed to get you home.” 

“And did I?” Jugend asks in a much calmer tone than Alte feels he would have in the reverse. He stares open-mouthed at Jugend for a long minute. 

“ _No,_ you prick. You were too drunk to stand, I wasn’t going to let you- Fuck, I’m not some shithead frat boy who’d take advantage of someone who’s blackout drunk. Fuck me. You _asshole_.” 

“Sorry,” Jugend says, and it sounds surprisingly genuine. “I suppose I don’t really have high expectations that people will respect my boundaries. I didn’t mean to imply-” 

“You did,” Alte retorts bluntly, before he can wriggle his way out with an apology. “You were a fucking wreck last night. And I was worried you were going to do something genuinely stupid.” 

Jugend’s gaze is sharp and analysing. “Like what?” 

Alte squirms. “Fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t know what to think. I’ve never seen you so... I just didn’t want you to get hurt, alright? I stayed up all damn night with you until I could make sure you were properly, actually okay. And when I woke up with a pounding headache because you made me drink like, eleven fucking shots last night, what gratitude do I get? I get treated like I’m intruding on your perfect life or something.” 

“I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t realise how drunk I was. I shouldn’t have tried-” 

“No, you shouldn’t.” 

Jugend huffs in irritation at being interrupted, but takes it in stride. “My point is, I shouldn’t have put you in that position, and I’m sorry I did. Drunk or otherwise, that’s on me. But I still don’t entirely understand why you have an issue with me not telling your brother the sort of work we do. I didn’t think you’d _want_ him to be privy to that sort of information anyway.” 

“I don’t, I just. I guess I’m not used to seeing you so… domestic.” 

“Domestic?” Jugend snorts around a crooked grin. 

“Yeah, I guess. Pretending we're a couple and all. You're not being a total dick to me. It’s kind of, refreshing. Nice.” 

“Do you want me to be domestic with you?” 

Alte glares flatly. “Don’t toy with me.” 

“I’m not,” Jugend bites back bluntly, and Alte flinches. “I asked you a genuine question.” 

“I don’t know,” Alte confesses uncomfortably. “Do _you_ want to be domestic around- with me?” 

“No,” Jugend answers, and Alte’s hurt must seep into his expression, because he softens somewhat. “'Domestic’ isn’t really my thing, Alte.” 

“So you just wanted to try it out around my brother? At my expense? Charming.” 

Jugend sighs, straightening somewhat and peeling his palms back from the wood of the door. He stays braced on his fingertips, but it gives Alte enough room to breathe, finally. “What do you think this is, Alte? What do you think we're doing? I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression last night. I was a mess, and honestly, that’s all on me. But you're here to be my bodyguard and that's it. You're not my boyfriend or my squeeze. We're barely even friends outside of work hours. You're not here for me to be ‘domestic’ with you. We're here to be professionals. Let’s keep it that way.” 

Alte blinks at him, and then laughs soundlessly. “And that’s how you pull rank, kids,” he mutters to himself, and Jugend frowns, but lets him extract himself from underneath his arms. When there’s some actual distance between them, Alte turns back to face him and asks, “Did you just set me up so you could reprimand me, or did you genuinely want to know my answers?” 

Jugend smirks. “You’re getting better at that.” 

“At what?” 

“Reading the conversation.” 

“Maybe I’m just getting better at reading you,” Alte corrects bluntly, and brushes past Jugend to reach for the door handle. Jugend holds the wooden slab closed, and Alte glares up at him. “What?” 

“What did I say to you last night?” 

“What does it matter?” 

“It matters a great deal to me,” Jugend answers in a soft tone, and Alte bristles, recoiling from the inherent threat there. 

“Fuck,” he snarls quietly, and racks his memory. “You bitched about your uncle for a good three hours with Svetya. Then you told me you’re into submissive men. Then you gave me a fucking _obscene_ lap dance. We drank some more, we danced a bit. Then you made us go to your uncle’s grave - whatever the fuck that was about - and I got to make sure you didn’t piss on your own damn shoes.” 

“Did I say anything to you at the grave?” Jugend presses, and Alte knows his exasperation shows in his expression. 

“To me? No. To your dead uncle? Sure. Got no fucking clue what most of it was about, but I get the impression you two have history.” 

“History is a word,” Jugend says flatly. “What about the part you did understand?” 

“Fuck me, do I have to quote verbatim? You took his seat at the table, he screwed you over, and now he’s dead. Sounds pretty standard for mob families to me.” 

“Standard,” Jugend repeats absently, and leans back, digesting that word. 

“Can I go now?” Alte snaps, gripping the handle but not turning it yet. “Or do you need to shove me up against a wall one more time?” 

Jugend arches a sly brow at him. “Only if you’re enjoying it.” 

“Fuck off,” Alte mutters, and steps out of the room. But not before Jugend can catch the flush that lights him up tomato red. 

Irre’s staring down the hallway after them when Alte emerges into the living room. “Are you two always that loud when you get domestic?” he says irritably, but his gaze has an edge of curiosity to it. 

Figures. Alte hasn’t so much as brought home a friend before. His brothers know he’s not totally on the straight and narrow, but the thought of Alte being intimate with anyone must be a pretty intriguing development for Irre. And ‘domestic’ has an entirely different meaning among their family. With how much Jugend is leaning into the bit, he must think they’re one adulating look away from getting hitched. 

“Not a domestic,” Alte answers offhandedly, and snatches the keys up off the counter. Some of the tension in Irre’s shoulders unwinds at that statement, and Alte tries to ignore it. “Come on. We’re getting you some new clothes if you’re staying the night.” 

Irre scoffs, but rises to his feet and hooks his backpack over his shoulder. “Going to deck me out with a whole wardrobe, are you?” 

“If you can carry it on the bus with you, sure,” Alte shrugs, and Irre’s expression sours. Alte matches it with a glower, bracing for the fight. “You’re going home tomorrow, Irre.” 

“No, I’m not!” Irre snaps. 

“You can’t stay here,” Alte snarls, and is aware of Jugend materialising in the doorway. He keeps Irre engaged. “You can’t stay with me, and you can’t afford to live on your own.” 

“I can,” Irre contests petulantly. 

“What, with my money?” 

“You gave it to me.” 

“I gave it to the _family_ ,” Alte stresses pointedly, and watches Irre’s scowl darken a few shades. “Speaking of which, you owe me fifteen hundred, thanks.” 

Irre’s shakes with his rage, but he shrugs off his backpack, slamming it down a little forcefully on the lounge. He shoves a hand in before Alte can ask what’s happening, and retrieves a neat stack of bills, which he thrusts in Alte’s direction. “There. Take it.” 

“What-” 

“It’s fifteen hundred,” Irre sneers, and shoves it into his vicinity. Alte takes it, dumbfounded. “Every cheque. Minus the forty I spent on the bus. And the five I spent at 7-Eleven. I’ll pay it back once I have a job. But otherwise it’s all there.” 

Alte stares down at the money in his palm, before frowning. “I don’t- This isn’t for me. It’s for you guys, for you and Ruhe and-” 

“We don’t need money,” Irre says harshly, and shoulders his bag again, looking unbelievably small. “We need somewhere to live.” 

Alte’s heart sinks somewhere into his shoes and crunches beneath his feet, sending a sharp flare of pain back up through him. “I can’t give you that, Irre,” he apologises softly, and Irre won’t meet his gaze. 

“I know. Whatever. Can we go now?” 

Alte swallows and pockets the cash with a quick glance at Jugend. “Yeah, we can go. Are you coming?” he asks, and Jugend peels himself off the doorframe with an acquiescent nod. 

“You drive,” Jugend says. 


	18. Disarmament

“So,” Irre says from the backseat, underscored by the sound of rattling plastic bags. Alte glances in the rearview mirror, watching him cram a folded sweatshirt into his overstuffed backpack. “How long have you two known each other?” 

Alte bites his tongue. Jugend’s head rolls over his shoulder where he sits in the passenger seat, brow crooked. “Are we playing twenty questions again?” 

“Are you going to answer them this time?” Irre shoots back, sharp as a whip. 

Jugend scoffs, sprawling in the seat as he props an elbow against the window jab. “I’m beginning to see the family resemblance,” he mutters at Alte, and Irre’s hackles rise. 

“I’m beginning to think you’re an absolute prick, you know that?” 

Jugend barks a venomous laugh. “Beginning?” 

“Quit it,” Alte snaps, eyes on the road. Jugend gives him a doting, amused smile, and Alte nips that in the bud. “If you try to pat my thigh or apologise to me, I’ll break one of your fingers.” 

He might be mistaken, but Jugend’s eyes might flash with mirth at that statement, his voice slipping to velvet tones. “Is that a threat?” 

Alte swallows, clears his throat. “No,” he replies, and just manages to bite back the ‘sir’. 

“What the fuck kind of boyfriends are you anyway?” Irre gripes, glancing between them as Jugend settles again, perhaps a tad off-put by his easy acquiescence. 

“What kind of boyfriends are we supposed to be?” Jugend returns tiredly, eyes lingering out the window. “The stick-our-tongues-down-each-others’-throats-twenty-four-seven kind?” 

Irre’s features scrunch in mortification. “Gross.” 

Jugend scoffs, but there’s no mirth to it. “You’ve got a lot of preconceptions about relationships and family, kid. You should probably get a therapist to look at those someday.” 

“Are you saying I have family issues?” 

“Call it like I see it, kid.” 

“I’m not a _kid,_ ” Irre snaps, ire flaring as his gaze narrows. “And it takes one to know one.” 

By the way Jugend’s jaw flexes in Alte’s peripheral, he can tell Irre has unfortunately hit a raw nerve. He glances aside at the man, noting the clench of his fists and his tight posture as Alte starts, “Irre-” 

“No,” Irre cuts him off. “He’s been having a go at me all fucking day. He started it. You want to talk about family issues? Let’s do it. I’ve talked about all of mine so far - time for you to share, dickhead.” 

“You don’t want to hear about my family issues, kid,” Jugend says in a black tone that chills Alte’s blood. His grip tightens on the wheel. 

“We don’t have to talk about them,” Alte interjects quietly, but that only seems to heat Jugend’s fury. 

“What, you got mommy issues?” Irre sneers, and Alte has the intense urge to smother his stupid, juvenile mouth. He doesn’t think he can do it and keep them on the road, though. 

“What, you got daddy issues?” Jugend returns in a mocking tone. 

“Yeah, I do,” Irre says with a thick tongue, but he doesn’t look like he’s backing down. Alte can feel himself tensing in his seat, mirroring Irre’s posture. “So what’s your problem? What’s your big family drama?” 

“We _don’t_ need to talk about that,” Alte tries again, panic flaring. 

Jugend spins in his seat, gaze flat and cold. “No, you wanna hear it, kid? You wanna hear the fucked up shit my family’s got? Because I guarantee it’ll show up your cute little domestic shit any day of the week.” 

Irre glares, and Alte can feel his heart throbbing behind his Adam’s apple. His concentration is entirely on the way Jugend holds Irre’s gaze, the tight press of his lips and the promise of retribution in that stare. He doesn’t know who he needs to hold back from this fight, but he knows he needs to make a decision very soon. 

A flash of blue and red behind them gives Alte pause, and he has enough time to glance down at the speedometer reading fifty between his white-knuckled fists before the siren chirps. 

“Fuck!” he spits, and indicates to pull up to the curb. He’s a fucking moron. An idiot. How could he be stupid enough to speed in a neighbourhood like this, where they _know_ the cops sit on side streets? “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“Calm down,” Jugend orders, and flicks open the glove box to fish out the insurance papers. 

“I don’t have a licence,” Alte snarls, and Jugend pauses with the papers extended in midair. Alte spots the gunmetal handle of a Beretta peeking out of the glove compartment, and groans, laying his head against the steering wheel. Jugend snaps it closed swiftly and offers the insurance papers again. 

“It’ll be fine,” Jugend insists, and gives up trying to subtly convince Alte to take them, dropping them into his lap. “Just calm down.” 

“I don’t have a licence, Jugend,” Alte repeats, glaring at him. “No birth certificate, remember? No social security? They’re going to fucking arrest me.” 

“They won’t,” Jugend says with cold emphasis, settling into his seat. “Not once they see the name on those papers, they won’t.” 

Alte blinks at him. Of course. He’s mafia. They’re both mafia. Of _course_ Jugend would have the cops in his back pocket. He’d be naive not to. 

“Why does that matter?” Irre chirps from the backseat, his tone immeasurably distrustful. 

“Shut up,” Alte warns him. “Don’t say anything, okay? Please?” 

Irre nods, and Alte glances down at the insurance papers in his lap. Jugend’s inspecting his nails with an air of vague irritation, and Alte’s busy staring at him, so the sharp rap on his window makes him jump. 

He rolls it down with a sheepish smile, offering the insurance papers up. “I was speeding, wasn’t I?” 

“You were,” the cop says flatly, and thumbs through the stack of papers before returning to the top leaf. “Licence,” he orders absently, his eyes scanning the front. 

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” Jugend pipes up from the passenger seat, smiling thinly as the cop’s gaze alights on the name printed on the insurance. He must be new, but not too new, because he blanches when he recognises it. 

“Uh, shouldn’t be,” he hedges, and steals a glance back at his parked vehicle, silently summoning his partner. “Let me just get my supervisor, sir.” 

“No problem,” Jugend sings, the smile slipping from his face the instant the man doubles back to meet his partner halfway. “See?” he adds to Alte with a small smile. 

Alte’s too strung out to reply, but he feels the first tendrils of relief start to permeate the haze that’s settled over him. He exhales roughly and slumps into the seat slightly, willing the rest of his panic to dissipate. 

“Sir, do you have any identification?” a sterner, older voice asks, and Alte’s turning to greet the supervisor when he stills, the colour draining from him. 

“Is there a problem officer?” Jugend asks with a terse expression, the irritation flashing in his gaze. 

Alte can’t speak. He doesn’t know how he manages to keep remembering to breathe. All he knows is that he’s not going to be allowed to walk away from this. The name floats back up to the murky surface of Alte’s mind at the same time his heart settles somewhere at the pit of his stomach. “Officer Reden,” he mumbles, and the supervisor smiles tightly. 

“Alton, wasn’t it?” Cogar Reden says in a tone that promises he isn’t buying it for a second. 

“Yeah,” Alte gulps. “Sure.” 

Jugend hasn’t clued to the severity of Alte’s mistake yet, frowning between the pair. He opens his mouth to spit a thinly veiled threat, but Alte reaches for the keys, killing the engine and tossing them into Jugend’s lap before he can say anything. 

“I’m gonna go with them,” Alte says bluntly, and opens the door. Cogar takes a half step back to give him the room as Alte pauses, glancing into the backseat and sweeping over Irre. “Please take him home. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m sorry.” 

Jugend looks immensely distrustful, and Alte feels a pang of guilt rear in him at the expression before he slides out of the seat and closes the door behind himself. Then he meets Cogar’s gaze, taking in his vaguely amused smile with a tight throat. 

“Let me guess, _this_ is your neighbourhood?” Alte mutters, and Cogar’s brow crooks as he unhooks a set of handcuffs from his belt. Alte glances down at the carbon steel and groans. “Handcuffs, really?” 

Cogar takes Alte’s left wrist in his left, palm to palm, and turns him. “Hands behind your back,” he instructs, and Alte lets himself be pressed against the door jab, huffing softly as the steel ratchets closed around his wrists. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.” 

Alte’s never been mirandized before. He’s been arrested before, when a ring he was fighting for was called in by a losing bookie. But they’d used zip ties, not handcuffs, and they’d taken a whole host of them into the station in the back of a wagon. Alte hadn’t even made it to the interview room before they’d released him, saying something about him being a juvenile and this being his first and final warning. 

“Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?” Cogar concludes, wrapping a hand around the short chain and lifting him back off the car. 

“Sure,” Alte answers, and lets himself be marched across the bitumen and folded into the back of the police car. He wonders vaguely if it’s the same one he sat on the hood of outside the Astoria. 

The ride to the precinct is a short one, and Alte spends most of it thinking about Irre and Jugend. He marches pliantly through to holding, surrenders his fingerprints and signs over his first and last name on a waiver he can’t read. Then he lets them deposit him in an interview room with steel mesh on the windows. They take the cuffs back too, luckily, because Alte’s shoulders were starting to get uncomfortable, so he slumps into the metal chair and waits. 

They take long enough that he’s started restlessly pacing by the time Cogar steps through the door with a thin manila folder, and Alte glances at it once before taking his seat. 

Cogar takes the other seat, shuffling the printed pages inside before handing a bright yellow sheet across the table. Alte takes it and stares at it blankly. “We’ve wrapped up your citation,” Cogar announces, and Alte supposes that’s what the page is for. “You’ll have to appear in court to settle it. You’ll probably get a fine for unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle and exceeding the speed limit, but that should be it.” 

“Thank you,” Alte mumbles, because he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to say in this situation. Cogar sits back in his seat and surveys him. 

“You’re an interesting man, Alte Sklavesman,” he says finally, and Alte settles in for a long interrogation. “Not a lot to go off.” 

“Sorry about that. Forgot to go back and get a birth certificate.” 

Cogar smirks. “I’m sure. Now, I’m a God-fearing man, and I wasn’t born yesterday, so I’m not going to ask what you’re doing going around with Jugend Erdefunfte.” Alte flinches, guilt flashing through him at the thought that he’s dragged Jugend into his mess. “But I do have to ask you some questions about the Astoria.” 

“Sure,” Alte allows, and plays with the folded corner of the citation. 

“Alright then,” Cogar says, like he wasn’t expecting immediate acquiescence. “What were you doing at the Astoria before the incident occurred?” 

“Did you check for my booking?” Alte asks without looking up from the creased citation slip as he bends it back and folds it, again. He’s going to tear the corner off at this rate. 

“This goes easier if you don’t lie to me, Alte.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Alte contradicts flatly, but there’s no bite to it. He meets Cogar’s gaze. “You know why it doesn’t. Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.” 

Cogar pauses for the barest second, scrutinising him. “We did. There was a booking under Alton.” 

Alte arches a brow, but can’t bring himself to scoff. “Lucky me.” 

“We pulled him out of the wreckage. Michael Alton was an IT salesperson. He was travelling for work. They buried him last week in Michigan.” 

“Very lucky me,” Alte mutters. 

“You were one of the only people to get out of that collapse unscathed,” Cogar admits. 

Alte glares at the table. “You think I’m a suspect because I didn’t wind up a quadriplegic under twenty thousand tons of concrete? Is that it? You think I’m crazy enough to blow up a building with me trapped in its _basement_?” 

“No,” Cogar answers evenly. “But you walked in with fifteen of Bieder Erdefunfte’s men. Then you walked out and he didn’t. I’d like to know why.” 

“So would I,” Alte snaps. “I don’t even know who did it. I don’t even know if it was our job. It could have been any of the clans in this city. So why are you singling me out?” 

“Because I’ve got leverage on you,” Cogar replies simply, and Alte groans. 

“Fuck, deport me then. Stop threatening me to try to get me to talk about something I don’t know jack shit about. I don’t know why the Astoria was demolished. I don’t know why Bieder Erdefunfte was targeted. No, I don’t know who targeted him. No, I won’t talk about my employer. No, I’m not cutting a deal. No, I don’t want a lawyer. Are we done now? Can I go?” 

Cogar doesn’t say anything for a long, long while. “This isn’t gonna end well for you, kid.” 

Alte closes his eyes and rolls his head back. “You’re not the first person to warn me that this lifestyle isn’t ideal. Authority figures have been telling me as much for ten years. And I don’t know if you know this, but there’s not a lot of legitimate, honest work for twenty-one-year-olds with no formal ID and no GED to their name. I’m still alive, I’ve still got a roof over my head. I’m not starving, and I’m not in a shelter. So by my calculations, I’m doing just fine. And if it goes to shit, well, it can’t be any worse than where I came from.” 

“We can help you out of this,” Cogar offers earnestly, leaning his elbows onto the table. “We can get you immunity. It doesn’t matter how deep you think you are, we’ll put you in protection. No one will even suspect you, and by the time they do, you’ll be starting a new life a couple of states over.” 

“Tempting,” Alte says coldly. “But no. I’m a lot of things, Reden, but not a snitch. I’m not taking any deal. I don’t want any immunity. If you’ve gotta arraign me, then fine, you do what you have to. But I’m not talking to you, understand me? It’s nothing personal. It’s just not going to happen.” 

Cogar’s gaze darkens with that admission. “You haven’t been in this city long,” he states, his tone hard. “So you don’t really know what the Erdefunftes are capable of. I’ve only been a cop for six years, and I can tell you, I’ve been fed more shit from higher ups than a fertiliser salesman when it comes to turning a blind eye to their dealings. And I’ve seen how far they’re willing to go. They don’t have any qualms about changing out the guard if they suspect a rat.” 

Alte swallows, but keeps his eyes on the table between them. 

“They’ve killed people for a lot less. Shit, they’ve killed their lieutenants for a lot less.” 

Alte frowns, something tugging at the loose thread of his memory. “Like what?” 

“Jesus, Sklavesman, I don’t know. I don’t get to ask the questions, I just get to clean up the bodies. But the closer you are to the Erdefunftes, the less recognisable of a body your widow gets when they mail it to her.” 

Alte’s brow furrows deeper, and the words make it past his lips before he can think how fucking stupid it is to be talking to a cop about clan business. “You know of a Moreno?” 

Cogar blinks. “James Moreno? Yeah, he made front and centre on the Organised Crime Department’s homicide corkboard. Was up there for a full month before they switched out the captain and he closed the investigation prematurely.” 

“When’d he go?” Alte asks against his better judgement. 

“Maybe four, five years back?” 

Alte really doesn’t want to know anything more. He’s already pried enough in places he really oughtn’t. And he already knows the ending. “How’d he die?” 

“Homicide,” Cogar replies, and Alte gives him a reproachful look. “You want to know the gory details?” 

Alte shrugs, and folds his arms over his chest. _No._ “Yes.” 

“Official cause of death was gunshot wound to the head. It was one of the first homicide scenes I attended as a rookie cop. And shit, kid, I’d seen photographs in the academy that could curdle milk, but that scene…” Cogar shakes his head, brow beetling. “Whoever got to Moreno used a knife on him first. Took him apart slowly. Intimately.” 

Alte’s palms feel clammy, slick against his biceps. He can taste nausea swooping down the back of his throat, hooking a line down to his stomach and pulling. “What’d he do?” 

“He was Jugend Erdefunfte’s lieutenant,” Cogar supplies, though that wasn’t what Alte had meant. “The guy’s first lieutenant, back when he was a teenager and just learning the family trade. Got handed over by his uncle from his personal crew; an initiation present or something, I suspect.” 

Alte stays silent, chewing those facts over, digesting them. Cogar watches him, and his next words are slow and careful. 

“That’s not what you meant, was it?” Alte glances up at him, and that’s confirmation enough. “I don’t know what he did, kid. That’s family business, I suppose. We were told to keep our noses out of it, and for once - I agreed with the higher ups. None of us wanted anything to do with that shit.” 

“Who did it?” Alte asks quietly, but he thinks he knows the answer already. 

“I told you; we don’t know what started it or who did it. All I know is Moreno’s body showed up on his widow’s doorstep, and the very next day, Jugend Erdefunfte had himself a new lieutenant.” 

“Who?” he asks absently, frowning as he tries to imagine why Jugend would display a body like that. Why any of the Erdefunftes would be so reckless as to make a statement piece out of a homicide. Why any of them would call attention to themselves like that. 

“Kanin Schutzen.” 

Alte’s gaze sears back up to meet Cogar’s, pinning him there. There’s a reserved, carefully arranged expression on his features, and Alte knows exactly what’s turning over behind his guarded eyes. “You think he killed Moreno.” 

“Like I said, no one knows, kid. Could’ve been Schutzen, could’ve been any one of the hundred men the Erdefunftes have in their pockets.” 

“No,” Alte says sharply, and the tone reminds him instantly of Jugend’s. He flinches, and softens it. “You think _he_ did it.” 

Cogar’s eyes are unfathomable. “What if I do?” 

“You have to have a reason.” 

Cogar shrugs, folding his arms to mirror Alte’s in classic rapport-building fashion. “Schutzen had the motive.” 

“Schutzen wouldn’t have killed his superior for a promotion,” Alte contradicts immediately. “He’s not that kind of person. What reason do _you_ have to suspect him?” 

Cogar’s watching him intently, and Alte lifts his chin a little higher, squaring his shoulders. “Alright,” he concedes. “If you say so. I think it was Schutzen because I know some of Schutzen’s history.” 

Alte narrows his gaze. There’s a very smart, rational part of him that’s begging him to back out now, to let this conversation die and take the truth with it. _He’s your fucking boss_ , Alte chastises himself, _he’s Jugend’s right-hand man_. “What history?” 

“He’s not from around town. He started out flitting from gang to gang, making his way up the east coast. He picked up a lot of useful skills.” 

“Like what?” 

“He leaned less towards enforcement and more towards retribution. He was the man you sent in to make sure no one crossed you again - rival gang members, _your_ gang members, those under your protection. The final warning sort of guy. When you do that sort of work, you figure out how to extort someone efficiently. He got so good at what he did that when he set foot in Chicago, the Erdefunftes sent Moreno to flush him out of their city. He came back with the kid under his wing.” 

Alte frowns, shaking his head slightly. “Kid?” 

Cogar scoffs. “Yeah, Schutzen would’ve been, what - nineteen at the time? Moreno brought him into the fold, and shortly after he’d risen through the ranks to be Moreno’s second in command.” 

“He was Moreno’s second?” Alte says quietly. 

Cogar looks a little bewildered. “Did you even do your research before you climbed into bed with the Erdefunftes?” 

“Heavy reading isn’t my strong suit,” Alte allows, and Cogar huffs in amused exasperation. 

“Yeah, Schutzen was Moreno’s second. And now he’s Jugend’s first. Based on what I saw of Moreno’s body when they found him, whoever had a go at him had experience in that sort of thing. _Lots_ of experience.” 

Alte’s chest hurts. His heart is practically humming with how fast it’s cracking against his sternum. He thinks back to his first night in Kanin Schutzen’s presence, to the soft, careful slide of a knife against his throat under a steady, unwavering hand. He remembers the precise, methodical way Kanin had pinned him down and dislocated his arm just to make a point all the more emphatically. He imagines the sort of things those hands could do if they were turned against his superior, with the weight of a knife and a whole evening to spare. 

Alte wonders if Jugend would ever ask him to do something like that to Kanin. To mark out his loyalty on the man’s flesh. Remembers all the times Jugend has shown a fascination with his knife skills. The way he’d given Alte an impossible task while he mowed down men who’d held an allegiance to him since his early days without a second glance. The way Alte had just _done it_ without a second thought to what it meant other than how _proud_ Jugend would be of him. 

Alte shoves up to his feet, fingers tingling painfully. “We’re done,” he croaks, and Cogar blinks. 

“Come again?” 

“We’re done,” Alte repeats more firmly, and takes a step back from the table, needing the space. To breathe, to think, to dissect. “Arraign me or release me, I don’t care. But we’re done here.” 

Cogar sighs, but pushes to his feet. He shakes his head once, as Alte tries to reign his heart rate in enough to stop bruising his ribcage. “Food for thought, kid,” he says softly, and turns on his heel, leaving Alte alone with his traitorous thoughts. 


	19. Dissepiment

They don’t arraign him. 

Cogar walks Alte to the front of the station and watches him down the street until he disappears from sight. He flags down a taxi after a couple of blocks, the light-headedness and the nausea getting to him, and points the driver west. 

Alte’s not stupid enough to have the cab drop him on Jugend’s doorstep, and he sort of appreciates having the extra few blocks walk to clear his head before he has to face the man in that apartment. Because when steps in the door and meets Jugend’s gaze, that clarity goes up in smoke. 

He’s barely gotten a foot inside before Jugend’s slamming him back against the wood with a hand at the base of his throat, knocking half the air from him instantly. “What-?” 

“ _What_ did you do?” Jugend bellows, and Alte’s never heard him so loud. 

“What do you _mean_ what did I-?” 

“What were you doing with those cops, Alte?” 

Alte blinks, stunned, and then the anger starts to seep in. “I was getting _arrested_ -” 

“No,” Jugend says sharply. “That wasn’t getting arrested. _You_ climbed into a cop car _voluntarily_. So what were you doing with them?” 

Alte’s had enough time for his gaze to drift while Jugend’s been talking. Enough for it to lift past his shoulder and alight on Irre, staring wide-eyed at them from his stiff seat on the lounge. Enough for Alte to spot Kanin, standing a few paces behind him, watching Jugend and Alte, gun held loosely in his grip. Enough for Kanin to meet his gaze and hold it, and tilt his Beretta just the barest inch towards Irre’s back. Not high enough to hit, not yet, but high enough to convey the warning, the threat. 

Alte reads its message loud and clear: answer Jugend’s questions and no one’s any the wiser. Keep playing the fool and he’ll drag Alte’s brother down into this shitfight with them. 

It has the opposite effect Kanin’s hoping for. 

Alte throws an arm over Jugend’s shoulder, jabbing a finger at Kanin as he surges forward, lips curling back. His words are snarled, ripping up from his throat as his gaze flashes violently. “You lay a fucking hand on him and I’ll tear your _fucking_ throat out, you hear me?” 

Kanin’s eyes flatten out into dark, depthless pools, and Alte watches him thumb the safety off. 

The screech that tears up through him dies behind his teeth, but he still shouts, “You mother _fucker_. You psychopath fuck! Stay the fuck away from him, Kanin.” 

Jugend’s head turns a few degrees, drinking in the situation unfolding around him, then he turns back to Alte, hazel eyes flat. He yanks his hand back half the distance, letting Alte stagger forward against the sudden lack of resistance, and then his hand is hooked around Alte’s chin, shoving his head back violently. 

His skull makes a sharp _crack_ against the hardwood, and Alte’s vision blacks out for a spare few seconds as his knees fold. Irre shouts wordlessly, and by the time Alte's slumped to its base at Jugend’s feet with a gasp of surprise on his lips, Irre’s on his feet and advancing with bullheaded fury in his eyes. 

Panic grips Alte like a fucking vice. “ _Don’t_ ,” he yelps, throwing out a hand, and Irre jerks to a halt beside the lounge, chest heaving. “Irre, stay there, just- Don’t. It’s fine, I’m fine.” 

Irre’s gaze lifts from Alte to Jugend, potent fear sharp in his gaze, and Alte knows that look. Has seen it on Irre and Ruhe and Scheun’s faces time and time before, back when he’d still been living under Weisch’s roof. Back when Alte had leapt into the fray, between Weisch and his brothers, on a hair trigger. Because they were _kids_ and he was their bigger, older brother, and God be damned if he was going to let that prick lay another finger on them in anger. 

He’s seen that look every time he’s been beaten half bloody into the floorboards in substitute for his brothers’ transgressions. That look of absolute, daunting _fear_ as they stand rooted to the floor and _watch_. 

Alte doesn’t want to see what happens if Irre gets beneath Jugend or Kanin’s fists. 

“Fucking _stay_ ,” he snarls, letting the hatred fortify his words into something hard and blunt. Irre flinches at the sound of them, and Alte’s chest blooms with red hot pain like he’s been stabbed. He doesn’t care. All of his being is focused on making sure Irre isn’t going to set one more foot towards the biggest threat Alte’s ever found himself under, in all his violent, bloody years. “Sit _down_ , Irre. Please.” 

Nothing moves for a moment, and then Irre folds down onto the cushions like his legs won’t keep him up any longer, and Kanin holsters his gun. 

Only when he’s absolutely certain that Kanin’s not moving and Irre’s not getting up any time soon, Alte raises his eyes to meet Jugend’s. Matches the sharp fury there with a rage of his own. 

“You condescending prick,” he sneers, and Jugend stares down his nose at Alte, his fury cold in the face of Alte’s heat. 

“I will break your skull against this door if you speak to me or my men like that again,” Jugend warns flatly, and Alte bares his teeth reflexively. “Calm _down_. That’s a fucking order.” 

“Keep him away from my little brother,” Alte hisses. “And we can have a civil conversation. Sound fair?” 

Jugend doesn’t move for a few moments, unbreathing. Then he folds away from Alte and stalks towards the lounge. Alte barks a formless threat and clambers up to his knees, but Jugend strolls right past Irre and upon Kanin. 

The man’s chin lifts to meet his gaze, but otherwise he doesn’t flinch under that ferocity. 

Jugend extends his palm between them. “Give me your gun.” 

Kanin stares at him, and then his hand slides into his lower back, and he places the Beretta in Jugend’s open palm. He doesn’t break his gaze. 

Jugend ejects the clip with rigorous fluency, thumbing off each bullet as he holds Kanin’s stare. They chime dully on the timber between their feet, until the magazine is entirely empty, but neither looks down. Then Jugend lets the clip fall to the floorboards, snapping back the chamber to release the round, and flips the gun until he’s gripping the barrel in his fist. 

When Jugend brings the butt of the gun across Kanin’s face, the man goes down to one knee, spitting blood. Alte’s heart leaps up to his throat, obstructing his airways. Even Irre flinches back violently, and Jugend discards the gun beside Kanin’s knee. 

“If you ever threaten a child in my presence again, I’ll have someone slit your throat,” Jugend warns icily, and only after Kanin nods tersely does he step away from the carnage and face Alte again. He jabs a single digit at the opposite lounge, ordering, “Sit.” 

Alte swallows, but pushes himself to his feet and approaches, lowering himself into the seat parallel to Irre, keeping him in plain sight and reach. Jugend takes the seat at the end of Alte’s couch, running an agitated hand through his hair. 

“Talk, please,” he says haltingly. 

Alte glances at Kanin, who meets his gaze but says nothing, pressing his thumb to his split lower lip to stifle the bloodflow. Kanin looks away first, spitting surreptitiously into his palm as he rises to his feet to approach the kitchen sink. Alte looks back at Jugend. “Fuck you,” he says with feeling, because he has to get it off his chest. Jugend exhales evenly, swallowing that down while Alte gets his nerves under control. “I didn’t say shit to the cops.” 

“You were gone for three hours,” Jugend emphasises, and Alte can see the effort he’s putting into keeping his tone level. There’s a heady mix of fear and distrust beneath that, and it makes Alte’s temper flare dangerously. The adrenaline’s not helping either. 

“I _didn’t say shit_ ,” Alte stresses, holding him with that gaze. 

“You said something,” Jugend snaps flatly. 

Alte’s hands clench at his sides, and he tenses for the backlash. “Yeah, they wanted to ask me about what happened at the Astoria, because I kind of got buried under it.” Off to his right, Irre sucks in a sharp breath, and Alte studiously ignores it to hold Jugend’s gaze. “And I told them I didn’t know jack shit. Told them I didn’t even know if it was ours, and that’s the fucking truth. I _don’t_ know shit, so I don’t know what else you think I possibly could have told them. _You’re_ the one with the secrets, Jugend, not me.” 

Jugend’s jaw flexes, but it’s resigned, the anger tempering. 

“They tried to offer me immunity,” Alte says with a harsh, humourless laugh. “And I told them to go _fuck_ themselves, because you and I have a deal where we _trust each other_ , right?” Alte pins Jugend with that gaze, watches the realisation and the regret wash over him where he sits opposite Alte. “Or was I imagining that?” 

“No,” Jugend croaks softly after a moment, and swallows tightly. “We have a deal.” 

“You’re damn fucking right we do,” Alte sneers, feeling the heat radiating out from his sharp tongue like a blast wave. “And I’ve been holding up my end for the better part of a month. So I’m calling in your debt. Tell me you trust me when I say I’m fucking clean, and tell me you’re not going to put a bullet in me the next opportunity you get. Because I haven’t done anything to deserve that shit, and you fucking know it.” 

“He makes a good point,” Kanin cuts in coolly from where he leans over the sink. Alte’s glower slices up, and Kanin holds it as he dabs at his jaw with a tea towel. 

“How did that cop know you?” Jugend asks instead of acknowledging that. 

“He was one of the cops that pulled me out from under the Astoria.” 

“What’s the Astoria?” Irre interrupts, and Jugend’s gaze slides over to him, as if he’d forgotten he was even there. 

“It’s a hotel,” Alte answers without looking away from Jugend, and shifts very slightly to put himself between them. Jugend notices it, but says nothing. 

Irre’s head snaps around, equally horrified and furious. “A hotel collapsed on you?!” 

“Yeah,” Alte mutters. “With his uncle underneath it.” 

“Don’t,” Jugend warns. 

Alte bares teeth. “Don’t _what_ , Jugend? What the fuck happened with the Astoria? Was it our job or Keegan’s? Because it’s looking less and less like they were involved, so I’ve gotta wonder who the fuck would want to drop a building on Bieder Erdefunfte, the white knight of the Erdefunfte family. They’d have to have a grudge three miles wide to even consider pulling that off, and I only know one person who hates Bieder enough to give it the good old college try.” 

Jugend looks tired, and he flexes his jaw, looking out over the balcony, seeing nothing. “We’re not doing this tonight,” he murmurs. 

“Not doing what?” 

“This bit where you think you deserve to know anything when you’ve been here five fucking minutes,” Jugend snaps, eyes flashing. “It’s not happening, Alte. Not now, and certainly not in front of your _seventeen-year-old brother_. Hear me?” 

Ice dashes through Alte’s stomach, and he meets Irre’s confused gaze, before returning to Jugend. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “okay.” 

“Glad we agree,” Jugend says flatly, and pushes to his feet, spotting Kanin. “You’re fucking benched until further notice.” 

“I’m already benched,” Kanin points out, leaning a hip against the counter. 

“Good, then you can work on getting Alte’s brothers into a better goddamn home. Make it your pet project.” 

“Hang on,” Alte begins, because he doesn’t want Kanin to know anything more about his brothers than he already does, and that sounds like Jugend’s popping open a whole new can of worms. 

“Thank you,” Irre pipes up, and all of them turn at his flat tone. He holds Jugend’s gaze, ignoring Alte. “But our mom’s coming too.” 

Jugend stiffens for a moment, surprised, before nodding. “Get it done,” he orders Kanin, who sighs, but watches him retreat into the master bedroom and slam the door. 

He returns a few hours later, while Alte’s wrapping up the leftovers from dinner and dunking the crockery in the sink. He waves off Alte’s offer to reheat some, and snags the laptop, joining Irre on the lounge. 

Alte tenses immediately, sharing a hesitant look with his younger brother before Jugend flips open the screen and starts murmuring about four-bedroom townhouses in Milwaukee. Asking Irre whether he’s a junior or senior, and whether he thinks their younger brothers will adjust better to private or public schooling. 

Irre melts into the attention with growing enthusiasm, and Alte moves through the motions of washing dishes while he keeps a steady eye on the pair. That is, until his attention is diverted by a more pressing threat. 

Kanin picks the tea towel up off the bench top, taking the nearest bowl in hand. Alte exhales through his nose, setting his jaw, but says nothing as the man takes up a solitary post by his side. 

“We're going to talk,” he says. 

“Are we?” Alte counters as Kanin sets the dry bowl down on the bench top and picks up a fork. 

“Yeah, we are. Because you haven't looked at me right since you walked in. So who'd you talk to?” 

Alte doesn't answer that, because he can smell the bait from a mile off. Admitting he's had a chat with a cop isn't going to go down well in any context, especially not this situation. 

Kanin sighs softly. “Okay. What did they say about me?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Because I'd like to think we've known each other long enough that you'd ask me before taking someone at their word about me,” Kanin retorts pointedly and Alte scrubs the skillet a little more harshly than necessary. If Kanin notices, he doesn't say so. “So what shit have you heard about me?” 

“That you're not from around here.” 

“Neither are you.” 

Alte doesn't appreciate the comparison, so he's quick to draw the line between them. “I didn't torture people where I came from.” 

Kanin's quiet for a long moment, drying dishes absently as the silence stretches. “Define torture.” 

Alte throws the scrubbing brush down, meeting his gaze with broad exasperation. “It's _torture_ , Kanin. If you have to ask me to define that, then I don't think I need to ask the question again.” 

“I came from a bad place,” Kanin admits solemnly. “I started out with some bad gangs before I made it to Chicago. I did some shit I'm not proud of. I got _good_ at shit I'm not proud of. But you know what?” He puts down the fork he's been drying for the past two minutes straight and meets Alte's eye. “ _I don't do that shit anymore_. Haven't done it, not a single lick of it, since Jugend took me in.” 

“Since you became his lieutenant or since you were Moreno’s two-IC?” Alte asks bluntly, and Kanin looks like he’s been slapped. 

“Both,” Kanin replies after a fumble. “I haven’t-” 

“Really?” Alte cuts in pointedly, and tenses for a fight. “You haven’t carved up a man who used to be your superior? Because if you didn’t, and you're telling me the truth, I don’t fucking like the alternative.” 

Kanin's jaw is a terse, flat line. He doesn't move towards Alte though, and the latter doesn't know whether to read it as a threat or a truce. 

“First of all, don't talk about shit you have no idea about,” he says evenly. “Because you're going to say something stupid to the wrong fucking person.” 

“Are you the wrong person?” Alte asks coldly, and Kanin's gaze flashes darkly. 

“Second,” he continues with force, overriding that comment, “yes, I haven't done that shit since the Erdefunftes took me in.” Alte blanches, horror striking through him at the thought that _Jugend_ could have done something so reprehensible. “ _Except_ ,” Kanin stresses when he sees Alte's expression, “when a particular someone really fucking earnt it.” 

“What could someone have done to earn _that_?” Alte hisses, stunned. 

“If you knew, you wouldn't need to ask that question,” Kanin says coldly, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Alte doesn't bite. “I'm having a hard time believing that, especially if Jugend gave that order. And considering that I'm not particularly keen on starting a family tradition of offing my predecessor, I think I should be told why.” 

“You don't need to be told anything,” Kanin snaps harshly. “You're here to do a fucking job. And I'm not your predecessor; you're a substitute for a small _part_ of my job. Don't give yourself the credit.” 

“Just taking out the competition then,” Alte says coldly, and Kanin comes very close to laying hands on him. He can see it in the way he tenses, and Alte steps back into a half-stance immediately. Jugend and Irre glance up at the motion, but Alte’s eyes are only on Kanin. 

“If _that_ was the competition I was supposed to aspire to,” Kanin sneers, “then I’m glad Jugend’s got someone else at his side. I don't particularly give a shit if that's me or you, kid. But don't make the mistake of thinking Moreno was an honourable man and I erred in taking him out. He deserved every single thing he got.” 

“Did you put the mercy bullet in him, or did Jugend?” 

Kanin snatches up a knife from the counter, levelling it at Alte. He brings his hands up, open-palmed, because he knows how to fight someone with a knife. They don't scare him like they do other people. 

Kanin seems to realise that, but he doesn't withdraw, his lips peeling back to snarl a threat. He doesn't get the words out. 

“I did,” Jugend pipes up, no bravado to his tone, and Alte rounds on him. “But it wasn't a mercy bullet. I would have made him beg me for that.” 

A million thoughts split through Alte's skull at the same moment, jamming in the floodgate and leaving him standing there stunned. 

“What the _fuck_?” Irre says loudly, and Alte's stomach plummets at the realisation that his little brother is in the room and they're casually discussing _homicide_ like it's an everyday occurrence. 

Jugend gets there before Alte does. “You didn't hear that.” 

Irre looks incredulous. “Are you shitting me? What the fuck?!” 

“You didn't,” Jugend insists, snaring his gaze. Irre visibly retreats from the intensity of it. “Because if you did, I'd have to threaten you, and I like your brother too much to do that to him.” 

Irre glances over at Alte, a silent plea for direction, and Alte swallows. “You didn’t hear anything,” Alte assures him softly, holding his gaze. He sees disbelief and then frustration race through their depths. “Irre?” 

It takes a moment of stubborn jaw-setting, but then Irre says, “I didn’t hear anything.” 

“What didn’t you hear?” Jugend asks flatly, and Alte shoots him a reproachful glare that he doesn’t back down from. 

“I didn’t hear _anything_ ,” Irre reasserts, holding Jugend’s stare. After a terse moment, Jugend finally huffs and looks away. 

“Good,” he says shortly. “Let’s keep it that way.” 


	20. Appeasement

Alte jolts awake the next morning to Jugend standing over him where he’s sprawled uncomfortably over the couch. He’d given Irre his bed, staking a claim in the living room. Kanin had taken the other couch without complaint, and at some point he’s vacated, his blanket neatly folded on one of the cushions. 

Jugend looks like he’s either barely slept, or slept so deeply that he’s barely coherent. He presses a coffee into Alte’s hands and runs fingers back through the mess of his hair. Manages to hold his gaze for all of twenty seconds to tell him he’s granting him three days of leave before he retreats back to his bedroom and shuts the door. 

The coffee tastes terribly bitter, but it gives Alte something to focus on while he muses over Jugend’s unusually frazzled demeanour. By the time Alte’s dressed decently and frying up a breakfast for him and Irre, Kanin shrugs through the front door, dressed immaculately in a suit. 

Alte meets his gaze solemnly, and Kanin returns it without comment. There’s a lurid purple bruise blooming on his cheekbone that looks particularly painful, but it doesn’t look like he’s picked up a shiner or a split lip, so Alte’s hoping it will fade fairly quickly. 

The sooner they can put the mess of last night behind them, the better. Alte’s not keen to have an in-depth discussion; he made his point last night, and the last thing he wants is Kanin’s methodical judgement hanging over his decision. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be the only one willing to move on. 

Kanin leans his crossed arms against the counter, looking tightly wound and hesitant despite his casual stance. Irre’s features shuffle into a subdued scowl at the man’s proximity, but Kanin doesn’t acknowledge when he shifts away. He watches Alte turn the eggs over before murmuring, “He gave you leave, I presume?” 

Alte grunts an assent, and Kanin digests that silently. 

“How long?” 

“Three days,” Alte answers quietly, and coaxes an egg onto Irre’s outstretched plate. 

Kanin hums, folds his hands over each other and looks down. “When you get back, I’m handing over to you.” 

He’d expected there’d be some sort of debriefing procedure to bring him up to speed. He’d just really appreciate if Kanin didn’t handle him delicately after their argument. Alte drops the skillet into the sink and says, tightly, “Okay.” 

Kanin blinks at him, like he hasn’t quite understood. “Permanently,” he clarifies. 

Surprise unfurls behind Alte’s sternum, and he glances over at the man, wary of a lie. “What?” 

The mafioso straightens, curling his palms over the lip of the counter as he holds Alte’s frozen stare. “Jugend’s personal protection. I’m retiring from it. I’ll still be his right hand; I’ll manage his schedule and his assets. But I’m handing his protection, his safety, over to you.” 

Alte can feel Irre’s gaze on him as he chews, the way it slides between them suspiciously, but he can’t find the sense to send him out of the room. Not when his head’s spinning at the prospect. “I thought I was only temporary.” 

“Changed my mind,” Kanin says without pause. He can’t discern any hint of insincerity in his tone. 

Alte doesn’t buy it. “What prompted this? Last night you were pointing a knife at me.” 

“And you didn’t flinch.” 

“Was that supposed to be a test?” Alte demands flatly, his tone sheer as ice. 

Kanin shakes his head easily. “No, that wasn’t a test. There are no tests in this game, kid. I don’t play like Jugend does. But I do pay attention. And I can’t name a single instant I doubted his safety under your watch.” 

Something warm churns in Alte’s gut at the praise, and he swallows. “So what? That’s the job.” 

“That’s _my_ job,” Kanin emphasises. “It’s how _I’d_ handle him. I haven’t ever been able to trust anyone with that responsibility before. And you’ve demonstrated your aptitude in spades, kid. I _trust_ you with his life. And I’m willing to demonstrate it.” 

“By making me his human shield,” Alte says stiffly, chest feeling unnaturally tight. He can’t place why. 

“It’s more than that,” Kanin replies evenly, solemnly. It’s honest, through and through, reflected in his steady gaze. Not chastising, but a mantra. 

“It’s more than that,” Alte agrees softly. 

Kanin straightens, clearing his throat as he crosses his arms and surveys Alte, the motion stiff and unprepared. “We can talk about it more when you get back. I just wanted you to know before you headed out.” 

“Thank you,” Alte says, because he knows an olive branch when he sees it. He jabs a thumb at the percolator behind him. “Coffee?” 

“Please,” Kanin says with a gratitude that runs much deeper. 

The silence lulls between them after that, not yet comfortable, but no longer awkward, broken only by the scrape of Irre’s fork across his plate. He keeps shooting Kanin glances out of the corner of his eye, as if wary that the man will lunge for him. He shifts off the stool after a minute, mumbling something about a shower as he slinks down the hallway. 

Jugend emerges shortly after, dressed down to sweatpants and hair barely more presentable than earlier. He shoulders a duffel and spares them a glance that doesn’t reach Alte as he beelines for the door. Kanin pivots to watch him with an air of mild amusement. “Need an escort?” 

“Just going downstairs to the gym,” Jugend answers, and glances back to sweep them with an inattentive gaze. He pauses to run a hand through his fringe. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t wait up.” 

Kanin nods, but Jugend ducks out the door before he can really catch it. The older man turns back with a shake of his head to watch Alte meter out his black coffee, fingernails drumming idly on the granite. Alte stares at the closed door as he slides the mug across the counter and says, “He seems evasive.” 

Kanin shuffles his cup between his palms, and smiles thinly. “He’s apologising.” 

Alte glances down at Kanin, and then frowns over to where Jugend had disappeared. “How in the hell is he apologising? What for?” 

“He’s giving you space.” Kanin’s gaze flickers to his cup again. “That’s what he thinks you want; space to process his behaviour. He knows he fucked up. He jumped to conclusions, and he put his hands on you, and he regrets it. _Immensely._ ” 

Alte studies Kanin’s soft, placid gaze, noticing that it won’t meet his. “And he couldn’t tell me all this himself?” 

Kanin scoffs. “Jugend doesn’t trust words. He’s too much of a liar - and he’s been lied to too often - to believe anything that comes out of someone’s mouth. So he’s apologising the best way he knows how; by giving you what he thinks you want.” 

“He didn’t think to ask me what I wanted?” Alte asks, crooking a brow. 

“What did you want?” Kanin says instead of answering, and Alte’s features pinch. 

“I don’t know.” 

Kanin shrugs. “He’s doing his best. He knows your brothers are important to you, so he’s trying to give you time with them.” Kanin’s gaze flickers up Alte’s tense form. “He’s not punishing you, Alte. I promise. He’s just sorry, and he doesn’t know how to articulate that.” 

“Is he always this cryptic?” Alte mutters, but he already knows the answer. The distinct lack of response confirms it, and Alte sighs. “So what’s he expecting me to do now? How am I supposed to ‘thank’ him for this apology?” 

Kanin gives him an odd look. “You don’t thank him. You forgive him.” 

Alte starts, blinking, and the sight makes Kanin’s brow pinch in sympathy. 

“He’s done a number on you, kid,” he mutters, shaking his head. Then he fixes Alte with a firm, grave stare. “You forgive him if you _want_ to forgive him, Alte. He might seem like he can get away with anything, but if something’s bothering you, we want to hear it. We don’t hold grudges, he and I. We trust each other too much to hold something like that over each other. And, kid?” 

Alte glances up from the granite of the counter, brows unknitting from their unconscious scowl. 

Kanin’s lips are curled in the smallest smile, his expression uncommonly open and sincere. “You did good, standing up to him like that. Don’t let him intimidate you. Tell him when he’s crossing a line with you, and he’ll respect your boundaries.” 

“Sure,” Alte replies, but he’s not sure he believes it. 

Those dark eyes take on an edge of severity. “I’m serious, Alte. Jugend doesn’t overstep boundaries once he knows where they lie. He’s not that kind of person. And he wants to hear it from you. He’ll push the buck, but he respects you. More than you realise, probably.” 

Alte swallows, feeling out of sorts all of a sudden. “Sure,” he croaks softly, unsure why those words are making his chest lace tight. 

“I know he can seem like a prick at times,” Kanin continues with a wry twist of his lips, “but I’ve known him a long time. I know what he’s like. He’s a good man, Alte. Beneath all of his… bullshit, he’s a good man. I hope one day you can see that for yourself.” 

He nods, throats stiff and unmovable, and can’t bring himself to answer. 

Kanin’s gaze flickers over him, before he sets his half-drunk cup on the counter and straightens with a small, uncharacteristically reassuring smile. “Enjoy your time off with your brother. I’ll brief you when you get back.” 

Alte nods once, more out of respect than agreement. “Yes, sir.” 


	21. Abatement

Alte spends the next three days buying Irre a duffel and filling it with all the supplies he can think of. Books and video games, clothing, a winter coat that costs nearly as much as Alte’s paycheck and looks sturdy enough to last a decade of snow, well-built boots to match. He and Irre trawl the aisles of Hobby Lobby picking out watercolours for Ruhe, and pencils for Scheun. Alte finds some parchment Ruhe will adore, and rings up the whole lot on the platinum credit card Kanin had lent him when they’d left. 

He makes sure there’s winter clothes in there for their two younger brothers too, enough to see them through the rapidly approaching season. Then he presses the fifteen hundred into Irre’s palm and refuses to let up until the teen reluctantly tucks it into the duffel. Ensures he doesn’t try to reverse pickpocket it back to Alte for the whole rest of the day. 

He takes Irre to the pier, because he can’t remember the last time they went to a fairground together. Can’t recall the last time Irre had a chance to be a fucking kid, let loose for a few hours. Not have to worry about him, or their brothers, or their mom or anything. 

It takes a few hours before Irre actually starts to unwind. Before Alte gets to see him grin and weave between the stalls, drag Alte to the ferris wheel for the sixth time just so they can dare each other to spit loogies from the top. Race each other through the funhouse tunnels until the sun dips on the horizon and the pier starts to glow with neons and strings of fairy lights. 

They sit downwind of the boardwalk with their legs hanging over the bay and wolf down the greasiest cheeseburgers Alte’s ever gotten his hands on, and then a second round just for good measure. Then they sit back on their palms and share a basket of chilli fries between them while they pass a flask of bourbon and coke back and forth. 

It’s on Irre’s third sip that Alte asks, “How’s mom?” 

Irre swallows past the burn and hands the flask back. “She’s doing okay. Worried about us.” 

“Is he getting worse?” Alte asks quietly, and Irre’s lips twist in displeasure, but it’s quiet. 

“About the same. I don’t want him going after Ruhe though,” he adds in a hard tone, and Alte’s chest aches. His seventeen year old brother shouldn’t have the responsibility of protecting their kid brother from their stepfather. Alte had been doing it from far, far younger, but he’s the eldest; it _is_ his responsibility to look after his brothers. 

He tries hard to shove down the sinking feeling that he’s failing. “I’m trying,” he says softly, and stares down at the churning waters beneath their shoes. “You know that, right? I am trying. I’m not- This isn’t a vacation or an escape or anything like that. I’m trying to get you out.” 

“Sounds like your new boyfriend has a plan,” Irre points out with a thin, unforgiving smile. 

Alte winces. “Maybe. Hopefully. If he can get you away from Weisch, I’ll take it. Whatever I can do to get you to safety, I’ll do it.” 

Irre chases a fry through the dregs of sauce left in the basket. “You been with him long?” 

Alte chews his bottom lip and cranes his head back to watch the stars. “Not really. It’s all fairly new to me. Jugend’s… it’s all very new.” 

Irre grunts at that. “You like him?” 

When he turns to look at his younger brother, Irre meets him with a piercing gaze, and Alte takes another sip of bourbon to buy himself time. “Yeah,” he says when he swallows it down. “I do. More than I should, probably.” 

“I don’t like him,” Irre mutters, and beckons for the flask. Alte hands it over, but Irre just frets with it in his palms. “He should treat you better.” 

Alte laughs, and scrubs through Irre’s hair until the teen yelps and bats him away. “Look at you, looking out for you poor old big brother.” 

Irre rolls his eyes. “Not like that. I don’t really care who you date. But they should treat you right.” 

“Why don’t you think Jugend treats me right?” Alte prompts curiously. 

Irre’s nose scrunches. “He bosses you around all the damn time. Acting all high and mighty.” 

“Maybe I like being bossed around,” Alte returns around a chuckle. 

Irre’s shoulders fold in, and his gaze slips down to the grain of wood beneath them. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But he acts like an asshole.” 

“Yeah,” Alte agrees. “That’s because he is an asshole. But he has good intentions, beneath all that smack talk. Kind of like you, that way.” 

Irre’s head jerks up, his expression offended. “I’m _nothing_ like him!” 

“You two could argue for two years straight and still not run out of things to bicker about,” Alte contests with a broad smirk. “Neither of you know how to just cut your losses. Sometimes the argument isn’t worth the fight.” 

“You were _literally_ in a fighting ring. I don’t think you get to make that claim.” 

“That’s different. I got paid to fight. You’re just arguing for the sake of arguing.” 

Irre flushes, mouth opening and then closing furiously. Alte can’t help but laugh at the defensive scowl on his features. He pushes the almost-empty basket towards him, and Irre rifles through what remains with a pout. 

“Whatever. Who asked who out?” 

It’s Alte’s turn to flush, which he’s entirely sure was Irre’s goal. He hides his hesitation by clearing his throat, tries to think who’s more likely to ask whom out and answers, “I don’t remember. Jugend, maybe? Me? I don’t know. Does it matter?” 

Irre snorts, and arches a brow at him. “You tell me. You’re the ones in _love._ ” 

The way he draws the vowel out makes Alte shove him sideways, to a peal of victorious laughter. He can’t help but smile at the bright, contagious joy erupting from Irre’s lungs. He can’t remember the last time he heard Irre laugh. 

“What about the other guy?” Irre asks around a mouthful of stale fries. 

“What other guy? Kanin?” 

Irre grunts in assent. 

“What about him?” 

“You hate him.” 

“I don’t hate him,” Alte contradicts firmly. 

Irre fixes him with a critical look. “You didn’t seem to like him much when he was pointing a gun at me.” 

Alte flinches, and clenches his jaw. “That’s- I didn’t trust him then, no. I wouldn’t like anyone if they pointed a gun at you.” Alte remembers the cold focus in Kanin’s gaze, the unwavering determination to stand between Jugend and the world, to shield him from whatever he had to. “But I can understand his perspective. I’m still not happy that he threatened you, but I can see why he felt the need to do it. He was doing his job.” 

“You said you didn’t trust him.” 

“Someone told me some stuff about him, and I trusted them over him,” Alte admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The chill is picking up, flicking off the bay where they sit. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” 

“Were they telling the truth?” 

“I don’t know,” Alte answers, and Irre frowns. 

“Was _he_ telling the truth?” 

“I think so.” Alte thinks back to how off-guard Kanin had seemed to be, how defensive and wary at the prospect that Alte knew something about him he didn’t intend to share. “I hope so.” 

“How can you trust him if you don’t know the truth about him?” 

He doesn’t know why this is such a sore point for Irre. Alte sighs and runs his fingers back through his hair. “Because I trust Jugend. He wouldn’t have anyone as his right hand man except someone he trusted immensely. If Jugend trusts Kanin, I do too.” 

Irre hums and processes that, contemplative. “He must really trust you then, to make you his bodyguard.” 

Alte nods. Then he considers. “Are you talking about Jugend or Kanin?” 

Irre shrugs, leaning back on his palms. “Both, I guess. They must trust you heaps.” 

Alte blinks down at his younger brother, something warm spreading through his lungs. “Yeah,” he croaks, and clears his throat. “Yeah, they do.” 

“Sounds like you trust them,” Irre points out, and Alte nods. 

“With my life. Kind of have to, at times.” 

Irre nods absently. “Hmm. That’s good enough, I guess.” 

“He passes your high standards, does he?” 

“For now,” Irre agrees, not biting, and Alte laughs. “It’s good that you can all trust each other. Weird relationship,” he adds on second thought, but smooths it with, “but if it works for all of you, then that’s good enough I guess.” 

Alte frowns. “All of us? What relationship?” 

Irre looks at him like he’s crazy. “You, Jugend and Kanin.” Then he barks a laugh at Alte’s expression. “Come _on,_ Alte, you can’t hide shit from me. I’m not Ruhe. Kanin follows Jugend like a lost puppy, and you’re not much better. I’ve seen how you look at them.” 

“I don’t-” Alte starts, and stumbles over his words. 

Irre rolls his eyes, smirk curling his lips. “I’m not blind. And I’m not a kid who can’t spot a schoolyard crush.” 

Alte straightens, trying to think back on what Irre could have possibly seen. “How do I look at Kanin?” 

“Same way you look at Jugend,” Irre answers with a half-committed shrug. 

“ _How?_ ” Alte presses firmly, scrambling for a buoy in his confusion. 

“I don’t know. It’s just a _way._ Admiring them, I guess. Like they’re the only people in the room. You only ever look at them; you just zone everything else out.” 

Alte blinks, surprise spreading through the core of him, tingling up his spine. “I don’t- Do I?” 

“Have since I got here.” 

“Do I really look at them like that?” Alte demands, and Irre nods like he’s an idiot. He feels a little like one. Concern bubbles in his gut, and Alte hesitates to ask with a knotted brow, “Do I… do I look like I’m in love with them?” 

Irre looks at him, dark eyes reflecting the light from the neon storefronts. He looks more sincere that Alte’s seen him all night, maybe more than he’s seen him look in his life. “ _Are_ you in love with them?” he counters gently. 

Alte swallows, and turns back to the water, chewing through that as the wind whips a spray off the water. “I don’t know yet. I might.” 

“Maybe you gotta think on it,” Irre says off-handedly, his focus on the curl of the tide around the legs of the pier. “Work it out for yourself.” 

“Maybe,” Alte hedges, frowning down at the bay. His head feels as choppy as the waves, thoughts colliding and rolling too much for him to get any good grasp on them. Whatever he feels, he’s not getting anywhere with it tonight. “You want to grab some cotton candy before we head back?” 

His younger brother eyes the expanse of the bay, heels swinging over the boardwalk. “Can we sit for a bit? This is nice. I like it here.” 

Alte nods, and sweeps the teen out of the corner of his eye. Irre stares out over the dark water, expression calm and unperturbed. Even if it’s just the calm before the inevitable storm, Alte’s glad he could give him this reprieve. He knows the teen doesn’t want to go back to Wisconsin, to Weisch and his problematic home life - but he doesn’t have an alternative now. He can’t leave Irre stranded in the city, and he can’t leave Ruhe and Scheun at Weisch’s mercy. As reluctant as Alte is to put Irre back in harm’s way, he needs to know his brothers have someone they can rely on. Especially when that can’t be him. 

Something heavy twists in Alte’s gut, churning low and unpleasant as he shifts his weight and focuses on the storm that’s building on the edge of the bay. 

“You like Chicago, huh?” Alte says gently, and reclines on his own palms. Savours the calm while they have time to enjoy it. “Maybe Kanin can find you a place down here with me.” 

Irre casts him a sideways glance. “You’d want us down here with you? Are you going to stay long enough to wait for us?” 

Alte nods, his tone softening. “I think it could be cool. Don’t you?” 

“Maybe,” Irre says, and it’s hopeful beneath its edge of wariness. It makes a smile tug at Alte’s lips. “Let’s hope.” 

“Yeah, let’s hope.”


	22. Amusement

“Explain to me again,” Alte prompts quietly, and adjusts his suit jacket, “how you managed to convince me to come to this gala with you?” 

Jugend offers him a coy smile, and bats his eyelashes. Alte doesn’t dare tell him how sharp he looks, hair combed and styled, suit impeccably tailored to hug his frame. His ego certainly doesn’t need stroking. “Pure charm. Don’t pout; you’ll enjoy it. There’s enough free alcohol here to drown everyone on the Titanic.” 

“Can’t speak for the company,” Alte quips back, and Jugend shoots him a glare. 

“You don’t even know who’s attending.” 

“I was talking about you.” 

Jugend’s lips split in a grin. “Careful. I’m the only guide you’ve got tonight.” 

“I’ll keep my enemies close,” Alte assures him, and Jugend barks a laugh. 

“See? Now you’re fitting right in.” 

Alte lets himself be tugged down the steps with firm fingers around his elbow, descending into the thrum of the crowd milling in the park. It’s been revamped for the festivities, fairy lights hanging between the pavillions and streetlights, bathing all those evening diamonds and thousand dollar smiles in a soft golden glow. Jugend doesn’t look a single beat out of place amongst them, despite his age, and Alte can’t help but feel subconscious beneath the passing gazes of senators and entrepreneurs. 

“A sponsorship gala,” Jugend had announced yesterday afternoon, dropping the crisp black invitation onto the table next to Alte’s top-me-up coffee. As if he could read the damn thing. He can still tell by the sweeping scrawl of the silver letters and the thickness of the cardboard that it’s high end. 

Alte had taken a slow sip from his mug and reminded him, “It’s my night off.” 

It had been at Jugend’s insistence. When Alte had tried to push the point that he’s already had three days off to take care of Irre and see him back on the bus to Wisconsin, Jugend had dug his heels in. Something about ensuring he took time for himself. Gratitude for his impeccable service these past months. 

He hadn’t bent beneath the incredulous weight of Alte’s stare, and neither had Kanin when he’d tried to glean an answer from him. 

“He’s apologising,” Kanin had reminded him, “in the only way he knows how.” 

“You were going to brief me,” Alte had pointed out. 

“It’s been postponed,” Kanin had replied, somewhat cryptically, and _that_ hadn’t sat well with Alte. Apparently he’d been too obvious with his expression, because Kanin had met his gaze and amended, “You’re still filling my role. That hasn’t changed. We’re just setting the handover date back a day. You’ll live.” 

He could wait another day. He still wasn’t quite comfortable with why Jugend was being so simultaneously alienating and clingy. 

He hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about the handover, seemed perfectly content to lean up on the kitchen counter and debrief Kanin while Alte had been sitting not ten feet away. As if he wasn’t even there. As if nothing had changed. 

Alte’s got a growing suspicion that Kanin is just fucking with him about it all. Jugend certainly hasn’t seemed to take it on board. So he’s been playing it cool, keeping his head down and his mouth closed. Taking the night off at Jugend’s request, and then insistence. 

The invitation had blindsided him, but he figured Jugend had a reason. And if it’s his night off, he can always refuse at any point. Tell these rich bastards to suck it and go home to watch some Netflix in the privacy of his own company. One of the many perks of having a mandated night off. 

Besides, it’s kind of nice seeing Jugend in this context, without the formality of being his security between them. Alte can take in the company and the sights at his leisure, actually socialise, actually _enjoy_ watching Jugend charm his way through the insufferably stuffy men and women that are apparently high up on the food chain enough to warrant an invitation. Even if he feels woefully like an imposter among them; next to Jugend’s smooth-talking charisma, dressed in his new tailored suit (another of Jugend’s insistences), and with some vague cover about being a philanthropist with a cool several million to his name, Alte doesn’t feel like he sticks out so much. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and lets Jugend do most of the speaking, he can’t go too wrong. And there’s no shortage of opportunities to watch Jugend smooth-talking. 

“Alte Sklavesman, Lawrence Keelmore,” Jugend introduces, and Alte shakes the man’s hand. 

He’s a burly, rotund man, with the air of someone who believes they’re superior but is being coy about it. Someone who believes they’re actually being _generous_ lining the pockets of a politician at this sort of campaign fundraising event. 

“Call me Larry,” he says with a beaming smile that screams of several grand’s worth of dental work. Alte immediately resolves not to refer to him by name for as long as he can avoid it. 

Jugend sticks his hands in his pocket and casts an exaggerated gaze over the crowd. “Good turn out this year,” he says conversationally. 

“You know how these things go,” Lawrence croons, settling his weight back on his heels and gazing out over the people as if he were a shepherd with his naive flock. “Our Governer’s got to get ahead of his competitors before the cold sets in and everyone’s wallets shrivel up.” 

“It’s not even half-term yet,” Jugend protests with a creased brow that’s entirely disingenuous. Alte wonders how much practice Jugend has had at playing these old saps at dinner parties, because they always seem to sing like fiddles in his presence. 

Lawrence shrugs and grins conspiratorially. “Early bird gets the worm. He’s rumoured to raise a hundred million before the year’s out.” Based on his tone, Alte’s inclined to believe that’s impressive but not groundbreaking. He’s just a little bitter that a number with that many zeroes is tossed around so casually in these circles. “Annie’s fretting over getting enough contributions again, but Lord knows us sods haven’t got anywhere better to invest other than in small-time soirees like these.” 

He shares a laugh that Jugend meets with thin-lipped, polite amusement. The sight makes something cold snap and flare in Alte. “God forbid,” he deadpans, and Lawrence’s laughter peters off a bit. 

He frowns chummily. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something better in mind for your many fortunes, Mister Sklavesman. Got some ventures up your sleeve that you’re keeping from the rest of us seasoned entrepreneurs? Afraid we’ll snatch up your share?” he teases good-naturedly, and all Alte can think about is the twelve grand he has to his name now and how _astounding_ that number is everytime he reads it off his monthly statement. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alte replies coolly. It might come out colder than he intended. “I know of three shelters that closed this week from lack of funding.” Because _his brother_ had been threatening to sleep in one of them, before Alte had put his foot down and forced him to take his bed. “So I guess it’s not just everyone’s wallets that are suffering now that winter’s set in.” 

Lawrence blinks at him, and Alte can tell from the sudden silence at Jugend’s end that he’s overstepped. He glances over at him, trying to figure out how he’s going to walk back this quiet outburst, and is stunned to find Jugend smiling. 

His face is still formally neutral, as Alte would expect from someone who grew up in these circles, but his green eyes are swimming with barely constrained mirth. And beyond that, the thrilled glee of a man who’s watching another man trying to extract himself from a bear trap with the subtlety of a seal. 

Lawrence matches his glance, looking at Jugend briefly as if he expects help, and balks when he finds none. “Well, I suppose that’s true,” he concedes with difficulty, and Alte drinks in the whole exchange, stunned. “But I know for a fact that the excess funds that aren’t used in the campaign are distributed amongst local charities.” 

“Excessive is right,” Alte quips before he can think to stop it, and Lawrence swallows harshly. Jugend’s full-blown grinning now, his gaze fixed on Lawrence as if he could devour the very tension in the air. 

Lawrence’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he spots someone over Alte’s shoulder and offers him a rushed smile. “So sorry to run, but I promised Barbara I’d let myself be introduced to her nephew. You know how it is.” 

“I’m sure we do,” Jugend purrs as the man extracts himself from the situation. Jugend watches his strategic retreat like a hawk, and Alte frowns. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs under his breath, and Jugend’s gaze snaps to him, fond. 

“I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I’ve got some more people I want to introduce you to.” 

Alte’s frown deepens. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly why Jugend’s suddenly taken such an interest in bringing him into the many rotating social circles around this gala. 

He lets himself be introduced to all manner of people, all of which he takes no effort to remember their names. It’s not like he’s going to be invited to another one of these galas in his lifetime, and if it is, it will be as Jugend’s security detail. These kinds of people don’t talk to the help, so Alte figures he’s safe in his ignorance. 

They’re watching their third victim eye all the nearby circles - which have their backs adamantly turned on Alte and Jugend’s antics - with a nervous titter of laughter, when they’re interrupted. 

“Jugend,” a curt tone says from behind them, and Jugend turns with a blinding smile already plastered on his features. 

“Auntie,” he purrs, and whoever-the-fuck Alte has just been dragging over the coals makes a hasty exit as Alte turns to greet the woman. 

She’s definitely got some of Elke Erdefunfte’s features, but where Elke’s are soft, this woman’s expression is stern and hard. She’s wrapped in an emerald-toned shawl that’s the only signifier of her allegiance to the Erdefunfte family, and when Alte glances down at her finger, he can see it’s bare of a family ring. 

Her hazel gaze lacerates Alte, and he realises he once again has no clue which Erdefunfte this is supposed to be, other than she’s too old to be Jugend’s sibling. Luckily, Jugend takes pity on him. 

“Aunt, this is Alte Sklavesman,” he introduces with a sweeping hand. “Alte, this is my aunt Fieke.” 

Fieke doesn’t offer her hand to shake, so Alte keeps his by his sides and tries not to wither under that sharp gaze. He lets out the breath he’d been holding when it slices over to pin Jugend again. 

“Where’s Kanin?” 

Jugend tuts. “I thought we didn’t talk family business with you, auntie,” he replies coolly. “That was your decree, wasn’t it?” 

Fieke doesn’t _glare_ per se, but Alte feels the secondhand weight of that gaze like the steady press of an anvil on his chest. Jugend doesn’t even acknowledge it. “How’s your mother?” she tries instead. 

“Flourishing,” Jugend concedes in a curt, protective tone. If Alte didn’t know better, he’d guess Jugend was proud beneath his defensive front. “How’s the Senate?” 

“Democratic,” she says pointedly, her eyes taking on a hard, warning edge. 

“They do hold majority, don’t they?” Jugend muses as if he’d misheard her. Fieke makes a displeased noise in the back of her throat. “Only a few months before re-election though, isn’t it?” 

They stare each other down for a long while, long enough that if Alte had been holding his breath, he would have passed out by now. Then Fieke shifts, lifting her head the barest inch more and adjusting her shawl as her sharp gaze flies over the heads of the crowd. 

“Best of luck in your endeavours, nephew,” she says, and when she looks back, her eyes are pointed and solemn. Alte watches the barest frown crease Jugend’s brow. “I hope you manage to see them through. And Jugend?” 

He starts a little, but meets her gaze again. “Yes, auntie?” 

“Stop siccing your dog on my constituents,” Fieke orders in a low, flat tone. Then she sweeps away into the crowd, and Jugend chuckles at Alte’s side. 

“Did you ask for a puppy for a birthday gift once and never get it?” Alte asks pointedly once Fieke’s out of earshot. 

Jugend arches a brow at him, and relieves a passing waiter of two champagne flutes. “No,” he says with a hint of curiosity, and hands Alte a glass. “Why?” 

“Because your family seems very intent on likening me to a dog,” Alte mutters venomously, and Jugend smiles broadly. There’s a fondness to his gaze as he mirrors Alte’s sip. 

“Do their comments bother you?” Jugend asks lightly, casting his gaze out over the milling sea of tuxedos. 

Alte passes him a sideways glance. “They don’t bother you?” 

Jugend shrugs. “I can find it in me to be bothered if you are. There’s worse things to be called than a dog. Dogs are historically loyal beau idéals.” He pauses briefly, the flute hovering above his lower lip as he considers something. “Unless you don’t like being called _mine_ , specifically. Does that bother you?” 

Alte thinks that over while Jugend drinks, and is a little floored to find he doesn’t mind that aspect so much. “I suppose it’s fine,” Alte murmurs, and Jugend doesn’t hide his small smile quite fast enough to slip Alte’s notice. “Why, you like having me as yours?” 

“Absolutely,” Jugend responds with quiet confidence, but Alte sees the light blush speckle his cheekbones. Jugend hasn’t had enough alcohol for that to be passed off as inebriation, which means he’s _embarrassed_. And Alte finds that far more interesting than any backhanded compliment. 

He turns to face Jugend more directly, cocking his head slightly. “Is that why you invited me as your plus one tonight?” 

Jugend scowls lightly over the rim of his glass, but doesn’t deny it. “Don’t tilt your head like that,” he chastises instead of answering the question, “it makes you truly look like a dog.” 

Alte tilts his head to the other side deliberately, and the scowl deepens. He smothers a smile, and asks with just enough incredulity, “Jugend, is this a _date_?” 

Jugend looks like he’s been put on the spot, and he’s exhausted the champagne he’s been using as a buffer. He fidgets with his glass, and Alte feels the smile split over his features as he fully enjoys this side of his boss. The sort of off-put that throws all careful planning and meticulously maintained facades out the window; the sort of vulnerability that no one but Alte gets to see. 

“I told you,” Jugend answers haughtily, and relinquishes his empty flute to an attendant. “Security stays at the door, and I need you by my side if you’re going to protect me properly.” 

“I don’t think Senator Ruedic is going to stab you in the guise of a handshake,” Alte points out. “And you could have taken Kanin; he would have known how to blend in better than I would. You didn’t _need_ me here, you _wanted_ me at your side.” 

“I’m starting to wish I’d brought Kanin,” Jugend retorts pointedly, but won’t meet his gaze. He’s very intent on watching a gathering of representatives to their left. 

Alte shrugs, and finishes off his champagne, shoving a hand in his pocket. “Well, now you know better for next time. He’s almost fully healed anyway,” Alte adds casually, digging into the sore spot that’s been bothering him all night, “so you’ll have him back as your human shield any day now.” 

“Is that your way of telling me you want to resign?” Jugend asks bitterly, glaring at the crowd. He won’t meet Alte’s gaze, which he finds unbelievably amusing. 

“No,” he replies evenly, and studies the half of Jugend’s face that he can see. His brow is pinched in a scowl, but there’s a hurt quality to it, a betrayal that Alte can’t quite place. “Should I be job hunting?” 

Jugend turns to face him, _finally_ , and his expression is mortified beneath his attempt at an indifferent recovery. “ _No_ , you don’t need to be job hunting. When did I ever give you the impression that I didn’t need you anymore?” 

Alte shrugs, but there’s no offence there. This whole thing is just funny to him. The best fun he’s had all night, in fact. “Kanin’s nearly healed.” 

“I’m not dropping you just because Kanin’s back to prime health,” Jugend spits, genuinely offended. “You’re to be my personal security. I thought he’d told you as much.” 

“He had,” Alte hums. “I thought you might have reconsidered these past few days.” 

“Why on _earth_ would I do that?” Jugend snaps, more than a little raw and stunned. “You’re my right hand man.” And, as if that’s too close to some sort of confession, he straightens haughtily and amends with, “Kanin doesn’t take pistol whipping as well as you, anyway.” 

“Charming,” Alte says drily, and Jugend - if it were possible - scowls deeper. “So what I’m supposed to get from this is that you like seeing me turn the other cheek? Or do you just like seeing me roughed up?” 

“You’re rarely so humble,” Jugend mutters petulantly, and won’t meet his gaze again. 

Alte smirks. “So you’re a sadist then? I didn’t know pistol whipping got you off. Or is it all kinds of whipping?” 

“Can you shut the fuck up, _please_?” Jugend sneers through gritted teeth. 

“Nope,” Alte replies, and when Jugend looks at him with incredulity, he lets his smirk graduate into a full-blown grin. “It’s my night off. I’m not your security tonight, which means I’m here of my own volition. _Which means_ I get to do whatever I want with my free evening. Thanks for the courtesy invite, by the way.” 

Jugend fumbles with that statement for a few moments. Long enough for Alte to exchange his empty glass for another flute of champagne, which he takes to sipping slowly. “So you’re not going to follow any of my orders tonight, is that what you’re saying?” 

“I didn’t say that at all,” Alte counters around a mouthful of bubbles. He swallows and fixes Jugend with a cool gaze, not missing the way the man’s gaze slides briefly to his throat as he does so, before snapping back up. “It’s just my choice tonight, whether I want to do as you say or not. I’m only going to follow an order that I _want_ to follow. So your orders need to convince me that I _want_ to obey them. You like mind games, right?” 

Jugend seems uncharacteristically floored by that statement, and it fills Alte with a dangerous, heady pride. He’s not stupid enough to think he can outsmart Jugend; he’s never had any doubt that the man is leagues above him in that regard. But Alte’s never been a stranger to bending the rules to suit him. Jugend’s games are no different. Besides, the man _likes_ a challenge. 

“So,” Alte adds, because Jugend shows no signs of being able to counter that proposal anytime soon. He takes up another flute, and presses it into Jugend’s stunned hand. “Let’s play a game. See how many orders you can get me to follow tonight. You’ve got maybe two more hours left in the evening; what can you do with two hours?” 

“I can do a lot with two hours,” Jugend admits solemnly, his eyes fixed on Alte, his champagne untouched. His attention is entirely consumed now. He tilts his head slightly, scrutinising Alte. “What happens if I want more time though? What if there’s more I want to,” his gaze slides over Alte, sharp and devouring, “achieve?” 

“Well that’s going to depend on whether I’m convinced to give you more of my time,” Alte points out, and Jugend looks hungry at that thought. He’s ruthlessly ambitious, and it makes Alte’s heart race at the prospect that he’s the focus of the chase for once. He sips his champagne nonchalantly, and doesn’t break that gaze. “Are you going to start trying to impress me?” 

“Love to return the favour,” Jugend says softly, and takes advantage of Alte’s momentary surprise to wind a hand around his arm, stepping up close to his side and forcing him to walk in-step. “Come with me.” 

“Why would I want to do that?” Alte counters, but doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break gait. 

“Because I’ve got to make two hours pass quickly,” Jugend returns, his gaze sliding over the other guests as they mingle into the crowd. “So I’m going to need to keep us busy.” 

Alte disengages his arm gently, meeting Jugend’s questioning gaze. “If you waste the next two hours on the assumption I’m going to let you take me home, you’re going to be left high and dry. I need more wooing than that.” 

“If you don’t want me to waste the next two hours,” Jugend counters coolly, “then you’re welcome to let me take you somewhere I can show you my real talents in persuasion.” 

Oh, there’s absolutely nothing subtle about that statement. Alte’s brain comes to a screeching halt on the realisation that it’s not just going to be subtext and insinuations for the rest of the evening. They’ve very much arrived at the precipice Alte has been dancing around for the past few months. Alte’s not entirely terrified by the prospect of leaping over the ledge. 

“I have no doubt. But this is supposed to challenge you,” Alte points out as he leans closer to Jugend’s ear. “If you can’t work within the restrictions I set you, what’s the point?” 

Jugend digests that, before asking, “So we’re not allowed to leave this event?” 

“I’m allowed to do whatever I want,” Alte corrects. “Unless you convince me otherwise.” 

“But it’s this event,” Jugend clarifies. “The next two hours, at this venue, right here.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, fuck the governor then,” Jugend mutters and winds a hand around Alte’s wrist with a heated fervor. Starts tugging him towards the gaping doors of the reception hall. “I’m sure I can pay off the cloak room attendants.” 

Alte doesn’t budge, and Jugend looks almost frustrated by his dissent. “Why would I want to go with you to the cloak room?” He sweeps his half-drunk flute across the room, gesturing broadly. “I’m in such good company already. What can you offer me that I can’t already get here?” 

Jugend holds his gaze, flat and _burning_ , but there’s something new to it. There’s a tempered desperation there, a firm want that borders on need. Then he steps into Alte’s space, reminding him very suddenly that Jugend is _taller_ than he is, and rests his hand lightly, quietly, on Alte’s waist, leaning down to whisper into the shell of his ear. 

“You want to know what I can do to you?” he asks, and a thrill spirals up Alte’s spine. 

He doesn’t visually react, except to casually lift his champagne glass between them and take a short sip. Jugend’s close enough that the stem almost brushes his chin. “Sure,” Alte replies with a shrug. “Convince me. What are you going to do to me, Jugend Erdefunfte?” 

Jugend’s grip on his waist firms, possessive, but his words are just as quiet when he murmurs, “I’m going to have you bend me over something and fuck me til I don’t remember my own name.” 

Alte is suddenly immensely glad he has a champagne flute to hide behind. Now he sees why Jugend does it. He keeps his tone cool and light when he responds, “Tempting, but I’d prefer more than two hours to do that in.” 

“How about I suck you off then?” Jugend suggests, and Alte very nearly chokes on his drink. 

He recovers and pulls back slightly to meet Jugend’s gaze, aware that his cheeks feel very hot. “You’d do that, would you?” Alte enquires with a hint of disbelief. 

Jugend doesn’t flinch. “I’d get down on my knees here in front of all these people if it meant I could have you right now.” 

In that moment, Alte’s not sure which is greater, Jugend’s exhibitionist kink or his, but that sounds stupidly, dangerously tempting. Which, he’s learnt from experience, makes it a very, very bad idea. So, he stalls. “Why would I let you do that?” 

“Because you’re curious. You want to know how far I’ll take this.” He’s not _wrong_ , Alte admits to himself as Jugend smiles somewhat smugly. “The answer is a lot farther than you would expect.” 

“You’re shameless,” Alte says. 

“I’m immodest,” Jugend corrects. “Shame adds a nice thrill to it, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, holy fuck,” Alte mutters, because the images that draws to mind sends a sharp rush of blood downwards and they are standing amidst a sea of respectable social elites. Any one of them could cock their ear just right and overhear them, and Jugend doesn’t look the slightest bit perturbed by that notion. Maybe he’s hoping for it. 

“So,” Jugend says, and slides his hand off Alte’s waist, relieving him of his half-drunk champagne flute and depositing it on a passing tray. “Which would you prefer? I might get these trousers dirty if I kneel here though, and this suit cost north of six grand.” 

Alte would very much like to ruin that suit, just to add insult to injury, but ruining Jugend takes a higher precedence. “Or?” he prompts. 

“Or you can take me home, and we can get a bit more creative. I’ll line up my security to watch me blow you, if you’d like?” 

Alte’s pretty sure he’s going to start whining soon. Jugend’s irritatingly confident in his delivery, not a hint of shame or second thought in sight. And the thought that he’d let Alte do that to him, so willingly, is just… 

“I’m not hearing a yes,” Jugend says with a hint of concern. 

“I didn’t say no,” Alte counters. 

“You haven’t said yes either,” Jugend retorts, searching his gaze as if the answer is written there. “I’m sort of particular when it comes to consent. So I’m going to need to hear a yes.” 

“Maybe you haven’t convinced me yet,” Alte says quietly, but even he doesn’t buy it. 

Jugend smiles, slow and sharp and dangerous, and Alte can’t find enough air for the next few moments. “You don’t want to be convinced. You want to be controlled.” 

Alte’s head is spinning. All those stupid fairy lights seem poignantly bright all of a sudden, bringing everything into sharp relief and laying everything bare. “There’s a dog analogy here somewhere,” Alte mutters, and Jugend huffs a quiet laugh. 

“I don’t do doggy style,” he offers, and Alte blushes at that image. “My one rule, sweetheart. You look me in the eyes when you fuck me or you don’t fuck me at all.” 

“Christ Almighty,” Alte moans, dragging his gaze away from Jugend’s before he does something stupid in public. “Can we go already? Now? Please?” 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jugend says with a hint of desperation, and seizes Alte’s hand in a bruising grasp, dragging him through the crowd. 

He shoulders past the line of security, his pace nearly a flat sprint by the time they make it to the promenade of cars. Alte practically dives in, tugging the door shut behind him. His back’s barely hit the leather before Jugend’s sliding down to his knees in the footwell, and Alte balks. 

“Gonna need that yes,” Jugend rasps, fingers digging into the soft points of Alte’s thighs as he settles his weight against the momentum of the car peeling off from the curb. Then he starts picking at Alte’s belt buckle. 

“It is a ten minute drive,” Alte protests, and leans his head back against the headrest. He glances down when Jugend hesitates, meeting his gaze. 

“Is that a no?” Jugend asks, with much more open concern this time. 

“That’s a challenge,” Alte replies, and winds a hand down through the crown of Jugend’s hair when he doesn’t move. “Yes, that’s a yes.” 

Jugend answers that by yanking open his belt and jumping to his fly. Alte’s fingers tighten in the man’s hair, but don’t pull. He follows Jugend’s lead as he leans down and kisses the exposed strip of Alte’s navel, hands roaming across his hips, just enjoying the sight of Alte’s cock tenting his briefs. 

“You’re a goddamn gift,” Alte gasps, the awe self-evident in his words. 

Jugend stiffens, pulling back to meet his gaze. It’s unguarded, and Alte can read the flickers of disbelief and suspicion give way to revelation when he sees Alte’s serious. “I haven’t even started yet,” he says. 

Alte frowns, unable to piece together what that could possibly mean when he’s this flustered. His hand tightens in Jugend’s hair, possessive, when he says, “Why would that change anything? You are a gift.” 

Jugend still doesn't move, and Alte’s starting to wonder if he’s said something he oughtn’t. He’s running back through their conversation in his head when Jugend says, “That sounds an awful lot like flattery, Sklavesman.” 

Alte opens his mouth to reply and has to snap it shut immediately to quell the groan that rips through him when Jugend lowers his mouth into Alte’s lap. His nose scrapes the waistband of Alte’s briefs as he mouths him through the material, and Alte focuses his attention on keeping his hips pinned back against the seat. His hand still tightens reflexively and then loosens. “Am I not allowed to flatter you?” Alte gasps, struggling to string together the words. 

Jugend chuckles, and pulls back, his tongue retracting back behind his lips as he grins up at Alte. “If you still have the coherency to compliment me, I’m not doing my job right.” 

Heat rushes low when Alte tilts his head down to meet that smug, wanting stare. “Better get started then,” he says hoarsely, and Jugend’s fingers curl obediently around his waistband, shucking the briefs and his pants down to his thighs. Just far enough that Alte’s cock springs free, and he huffs a strained breath, tilting his head back against the leather. 

The amber streetlights burn through the rear window, streaking through the charcoal sky as Alte slides an arm along the back of the seats, anchors himself against the soft warmth of Jugend’s exhale. Breathes through the need that makes his cock twitch at the attention. 

Jugend’s palm wraps around him in the next second, drawing a muted whine from his strained throat as he lowers his lips to Alte’s head. It’s hot and slick, and the little sigh of pleasure Jugend makes when he takes Alte into his mouth has him melting. 

He tilts his chin down to watch Jugend, shifting his hand to cup the back of his head. Not pushing, just resting, as Jugend hollows his cheeks and lowers his gaze to Alte’s lap. It’s a beautiful sight, those hazel eyes molten, shadowed in the dark of the backseat. Jugend looks gorgeous bracketed by his knees, folded down into the space between his legs. 

He keeps his attention on the head of Alte’s cock, teasing the glans and slit as Jugend works him deeper into his mouth. His other hand, the one not coaxing down the shaft of Alte’s cock, shifts between his legs to cup his balls, and Alte groans. 

It’s much slower, much less desperate, than Alte had expected, but he adores it all the same. The close of Jugend’s lips over him, coupled sensation and sight, more than makes up for the way he’s drawing out Alte’s torment. 

He exhales raggedly, bathing in the slow ministrations, and slides his palm down to squeeze the back of Jugend’s neck. It earns him a soft moan, and draws Alte’s attention down when he shifts almost imperceptibly. 

Jugend’s hard, he realises when he glances between them where Jugend kneels, his slacks tight against the strain. His hips are shifting with every bob of his head, chasing a friction that isn’t there as if on absent second thought. 

Alte shifts his foot a fraction to the left, hooking his ankle over Jugend’s crooked thigh until he’s got a leg between both of Jugend’s. Then he angles the toe of his dress shoe up against the crotch of Jugend’s pants and grinds down to the base. 

Jugend responds with a desperate, pleading moan that doesn't make it out of his throat. His hips cant forwards, and Alte traces the hard line of his length through the material, admiring the shudder that takes him. It takes all of Alte’s attention to stay lax beneath Jugend’s movements, except for the harsh grip he’s holding in Jugend’s hair and the little aborted thrusts his own hips are making. 

He spares himself a moment to come to grips with just how good Jugend feels around his cock, drawing that heat down into a knot that tightens to overwhelming strain, and another minute more before he realises Jugend’s rutting against his shoe with a steady desperation. 

So Alte gives Jugend’s hair a warning tug, and when the man doesn’t relent, he gives it a more determined yank. Jugend’s mouth slides off his cock with a long gasp of breath as he shifts his grip to tighten on Alte’s thighs, bunching the material in his fists. 

“What?” Jugend rasps when he’s filled his lungs. “What are you-?” 

Alte doesn’t hesitate, slipping his hand down to seize a handful of Jugend’s white shirt collar and drag him upwards. Jugend fumbles to follow the unrelenting pull, hitching a knee up onto the leather seat beside Alte’s thigh. He ends up in Alte’s lap, hands braced on either side of Alte’s neck to counteract the momentum of the car. As soon as he confirms Jugend’s stable, Alte’s hands jump to his belt, relieving his hips of his trousers. 

“Oh, fuck, Alte, what-” Jugend rambles breathlessly, and tries to reach down to still his wrists. The car makes a lurch left, and he scrambles to keep himself righted, hands jumping back up to brace against the window. Alte capitalises on the lapse by sliding fingers into his briefs and wrapping them around his cock. 

Jugend cries out, canting up into his hand, and bites it off with a hiss. “Your hands are _cold_ ,” he snarls, and Alte ignores him as he starts to stroke. Jugend makes a desperate noise, his grip tightening on the leather seats as Alte rests a bracing hand on his hip. 

“Sorry,” Alte purrs, feeling anything but. He palms the head, slicking his hand up as Jugend bleats a sound that’s both protest and plea. Alte chuckles, and leans forward to mouth at the bared throat in front of him. 

“Alte, Alte, you have to, _Alte,_ ” Jugend insists, and Alte’s driven mad at the sound of his name in the man’s mouth. Strung between desperate, tight notes. He grinds forward into Alte’s grip almost against his own will, and moans reticently. “I thought I was supposed to be conv-” he tries, and bites it off halfway when Alte circles a thumb at the base of his head. “You’re not supposed to-” 

“Shut up,” Alte suggests, and lifts his hips enough that he can get both their cocks in his right palm, stroking roughly. Jugend falls apart in his lap, canting up into his grip with abandon. 

“Alte, fuck, I’m gonna need- want you to fuck me,” Jugend rasps, and Alte ignores him. “ _Alte_ , I need-” 

So Alte shoves his thighs apart, forcing Jugend to spread his wider to counteract the shift. It puts him in a precarious position, spread open and entirely at Alte’s mercy. His trousers are tight where they’ve slid down his hips, biting into the flesh of his thighs. Jugend whines and reaches down to wrap a hand around the side of Alte’s throat, nails sharp. 

“You don't give me orders tonight,” Alte reminds him breathlessly, and twists his grip on the upstroke, drawing a groan up from his own throat with the motion. Jugend melts into him, his breath hot on Alte’s throat as he pants. “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But I’m _enjoying_ you like this.” 

Jugend gives a stilted, breathless little laugh, and arches his back so he can thrust up into Alte’s grip. “You’re going to make a mess of us,” he warns, the words barely slurring together. 

“I think you need this more than that suit,” Alte says between a few harsh pants. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

“You couldn’t afford this suit,” Jugend says with a curl of a smile, grip shifting until he can drag his thumb across the hollow of Alte’s throat. His other hand goes to Alte’s slip of a shirt, yanking it up his chest, as if to counteract the way he ruts down into his palm. His teeth tug at Alte’s earlobe, but it’s not distracting enough to mask the way he’s shaking all over, his hand a vice around the black leather at Alte’s shoulder. “You couldn’t afford _me,_ baby.” 

His tone is barely above a rough growl, and Alte’s brow pinches, his grip stuttering as he reins control back in. “Lucky I’ve got you tonight anyway,” Alte reminds him, picking up a more determined rhythm when Jugend rocks into him. 

“Make the most of it,” Jugend agrees through a groan, and tips his head back, jaw falling slack. His eyelids flutter, eyelashes dipping over those glittering cheekbones, and it yanks the breath from Alte’s lungs, his grip tightening reflexively around them both. 

Jugend arches, and Alte isn’t far behind him, painting his midsection in ropes of their cum as Jugend collapses against him. He strokes until Jugend stops twitching, and then extracts his hand to lick it clean. Jugend groans and turns his head slightly to join him, tongue swiping a strand from his thumb before he pushes back upright. 

Alte gives Jugend's suit and shirt a quick once over as he straightens, waiting for his heaved breaths to calm. Jugend tucks himself away with an almost graceful fluency, and then his hands jump back to Alte’s cock before he can do the same. It’s shockingly intimate to have Jugend slide him back into his briefs, holding his gaze with burning, coy amusement as he drags the zipper back up. 

His lips quirk when he finishes with the button, and drags his gaze over Alte where he’s slumped boneless beneath him. “Not bad, Sklavesman,” he says, his voice just the barest bit raw. Not nearly as rough as it could be; he didn’t take Alte that deep, and Alte’s suddenly grateful for the foresight. 

Jugend’s hand dips into his pocket, smirking at the sharp breath Alte sucks in when his knuckles nudge Alte’s recovering, sensitive cock. He nods at Alte’s abdomen, where the cum is drying beneath the wash of passing streetlights. “Probably need to clean that up.” 

Then he extracts Alte’s phone - which is _ringing,_ how did he miss that? - and tosses it at him. He fumbles to answer it, pressing it to his ear before he even thinks to check the caller ID. 

“Your driver said you were heading back,” Kanin says down the line, and Alte feels simultaneously hot and clammy at the sound of his voice. “You heading to Goose?” 

Alte opens his mouth to answer, to persuade the man that there’s nothing awry here, when Jugend dips down, spine curving, to lick a stripe of saliva up through the cum on his stomach. Alte claps a hand over his own mouth, exhaling sharply through his nose to offset the moan that tries to rip up through his lips at the sight. 

Jugend doesn’t stop, his fingers wrapping lightly over Alte’s hips as he runs through every curse he knows and tilts his head back against the seats to focus. 

“Yeah, Goose,” Alte confirms when his voice is as steady as he’s going to get it. “You meeting us there?” 

Whatever his suspicions, Kanin doesn’t even pause before replying evenly, “Want me to bring food?” 

“We’ve eaten,” Alte informs him, and glares down at Jugend’s snicker. The man responds by shifting his thumb up to roll over Alte’s nipple, and he desperately turns his head away to fix it out the window. “I don’t think he’s got anything he needs to discuss. Just wanted to call it an early night.” When Kanin does pause at that, Alte hurries to fill the silence. “Good chance for you to debrief me, actually.” 

Kanin hums, but Alte can’t discern anything from it before he replies, “I’ll see you soon, then.” 

“Alright,” Alte tells the dial tone, and drops the cell onto the seat with a sigh. “ _Must_ you?” 

“It’s amusing,” Jugend replies, straightening again in a slow roll of hips against Alte’s thighs. It doesn’t escape his notice that his abdomen is _clean_ now, or as clean as it’s going to get. He can feel the wet of Jugend’s saliva coating his skin as the man begins tucking his shirt back into his slacks. “You did admirably anyway.” 

“I’m good under pressure,” Alte mutters bitterly, and sighs in relief when Jugend swings off him, taking the other seat with a smile. They’re not far from Goose anyway. 

“That you are,” Jugend agrees softly as they descend into the parking garage. The amber bleeds out in the dimness, and Jugend is doused in the stark silver reflection of the headlights when Alte glances over at him. “So you shouldn’t have any trouble when we get upstairs to Kanin.” 

It’s a warning, but it’s light, so Alte swallows and combs his hair into a more acceptable mess. By the time they step out of the elevator, he’s almost got the faint blush down to a minimum, but it still feels like Kanin’s gaze zeroes in on it when they shoulder into the apartment. 

He doesn’t say anything about it, just turns to fix Jugend with a cool look. “You have a meeting with Senator Ruedic at eight. His assistant said she didn’t manage to catch you before you left, so she called me.” 

Jugend hums in vague interest and heads for the hallway. Alte envies how calm he appears when he casts a look over his shoulder. He can’t catch what’s reflected in his gaze, but Kanin’s spine straightens under its weight. “Better get some decent rest then, shouldn’t I?” 

Kanin spares him the barest sweep of a glance as Jugend retreats. “We’ll do the debrief tomorrow,” he informs him, to Alte’s hopefully not-too-obvious relief. “Get some sleep.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alte mutters at his back when Kanin turns and follows Jugend down the hall. He doesn’t catch where Kanin disappears to when he closes his own bedroom door behind him, but he figures Kanin’s going to set up Jugend’s outfit for him to step into when he wakes up. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

He strips down himself, slumping boneless into the bed with an exhausted huff, and strokes a thumb over the dip of his throat, where Jugend’s own thumb had rested. He smirks to himself, running his tongue over his gums, hyper aware of the fact that he and Jugend hadn’t even kissed in the back seat of that car. The ghost of Jugend’s lips around his cock, the clench of his hands on Alte’s thighs, the heat of his breath on Alte’s neck - and not a single press of him into Alte’s mouth. 

It makes him laugh, loose and breathless, as he stares up at his ceiling in the dark, to the muffled sounds of Kanin or Jugend moving around in the next room. Alte falls asleep with Jugend’s saliva drying on his stomach, curled around a body that isn’t there. 


	23. Sarment

Alte’s gaze slides up the moment before the door nub clicks, and when only Kanin shoulders into the room, he lets his gaze fall back to his phone. At the other end of the table, Jugend doesn’t even twitch where he’s reviewing their payroll, leafing through spreadsheets of accounts in one of the rare shows of actual work Alte’s seen him do. 

Irre went back to Wisconsin a week ago, and other than an all-too-brief call from Ruhe, Alte hasn’t heard a word on him since. He’s been throwing himself back into his work, trying to shove the thought from his mind. Helps that he has an incentive to demonstrate his impeccable work ethic now. 

He and Jugend had fallen back into their rhythm as soon as Alte had stepped out of his bedroom the morning after their backseat affair. The man hadn’t said a single word about it, hadn’t even given the slightest indication that anything had happened between them, but it wouldn’t be the first time Alte had been given the figurative cold shoulder over something like that. Jugend had just slid back into his usual charming, smug self, but Alte would bear the disregard for the familiarity of the Jugend he knows and not the tiptoeing, remorseful hermit. At least now Alte’s got an official title to stand behind if Jugend wants to reprimand him for it. 

Kanin had acclimatised too, following Jugend’s lead in inducting Alte fully into his role of Jugend’s sole bodyguard. Introduced him to the rest of Jugend’s rotating security and perimeter teams, made him privy to Jugend’s micromanaged schedule. He still can’t read the little black diary Kanin had given him - a mirror of his own; tradition, he said - but Kanin’s considerate enough to brief him nightly anyway, so Alte keeps track of Jugend’s movements in his own way. 

He doesn’t mistake it for anything besides the trust that it is. Jugend is meticulously reclusive with his private schedule. Alte knows from serving on his perimeter team that forewarnings are few and far between; more often that not they’d mobilised on the spur of Kanin’s impromptu instructions, falling into line beneath his omnipotent direction. 

It’s something special to see the inner walls of Jugend’s life. To be trusted with not only his safety, but also the finer details of his movements - who he speaks to, where he goes, what he sees. It’s a whole new perspective for Alte when he’s not tailing along blind. 

He’s still not privy to some of Jugend’s less legitimate dealings, but it doesn’t bother him. He can appreciate that he’s only been Jugend’s right hand man for a few months; Kanin’s had years to build that kind of trust and loyalty. Alte’s patient enough to wait. 

But it does mean he’s left to fill in the gaps when it comes to unenlightening exchanges. 

“Malta,” Kanin says grimly, apropos of nothing, and flicks a manila folder onto the table between them. 

Alte glances up from his phone long enough to note that it’s almost entirely print-outs and only one map in there, then puts his eyes down and turns his ears on. 

Jugend blinks at the manila folder, before raising his gaze to Kanin. “Mdina’s wonderful this time of year. If you leave soon, you might even miss the crowds,” he offers, deadpan. 

Kanin slumps into the seat at the head of the table, leaning his elbows on the deep-toned mahogany. Alte perks up a bit more then, because Kanin’s posture tells him this conversation’s important. “He’s in Malta.” 

“Who’s in Malta?” Alte asks, watches recognition flit across Jugend’s face, and knows he’s not going to get a straight answer. 

The recognition gives way almost immediately to frustration, darkening Jugend’s features. “Really?” he hisses, and flips open the manila folder, flicking through its contents with growing irritation. “Malta. Which syndicate?” 

“None in Malta,” Kanin replies evenly, watching Jugend leaf through the materials, laying them out with fervour. 

“Got to be Sicilian then,” Jugend mutters without looking up. “Graviano or Denaro?” 

Kanin doesn’t answer, his jaw tight, and Jugend glances at him, stilling. 

“Kanin,” he says in warning. 

“Can’t be sure,” Kanin answers reluctantly. “Definitely one or the other though.” 

Jugend lets the folder drift closed, blinking at him. “That’s a pretty big fucking difference.” 

Kanin gives him a look that implies that he’s very much aware of that, thank you, and Jugend crosses his arms, slumping back in his chair while he digests the information. 

“How long’s he been in the Mediterranean?” 

“Three years.” 

Jugend’s lip curls back. “Fucking coward. Do we know which province he’s in at least?” 

Kanin arches a shoulder. “He moves. He’s been busy lately. Hitting up all the ports.” 

Jugend frowns, flips to a specific document in the stack. Alte watches his long fingers trace across the neat white paper. “Ports, huh? Any in particular?” 

“All of them,” Kanin answers. “Trapani, Palermo - even did some work in Empedocle.” 

Jugend pauses at that. “Empedocle?” Kanin hums his assent, and Jugend taps a nail into the grain of the table, thinking it over. “Is he in Malta right now?” 

“As of three p.m., Thursday,” Kanin replies with the confidence of someone who has personally double- and triple-checked the source. 

“Oh,” Jugend says lightly. 

“Oh?” Kanin presses, and even Alte pauses to pay attention. 

There’s a small, serendipitous smile on Jugend’s features. “Are we still moving product for the Caruana?” 

It clicks for Kanin. “Oh,” he says shortly, and Jugend’s smile cements. “That would work.” 

“What’s happening?” Alte interjects, half-turning to inspect the documents, as if the answer will alleviate itself from the text straight into Alte’s consciousness. 

Jugend huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “We go back with the Cuntrera-Caruana,” he says lightly. “They’re conservative types. We can appreciate that. We’ve done them some favours, they’ve done us the courtesy of returning them.” 

He lifts a finger and drags it from the tiny speck of what must be Malta up to a curve in the Sicilian shoreline. He taps the map once, nodding to himself. 

“Agrigento. He’s using the port for trafficking.” 

“Drugs?” Alte asks with a frown, glancing down at the map. 

Jugend shakes his head. “People. His forte is kidnapping, particularly young family members of outspoken political figures.” 

Alte recoils at that announcement, and Jugend looks satisfied with his disgust. “He’s smuggling for the Cuntrera-Caruana?” 

Jugend shakes his head vehemently. “ _Rapimento e riscatto_ is _vietato_. The Cosa Nostra don’t like mafioso drawing attention; kidnapping is one of their verboten crimes. If he’s stupid enough to smuggle people in the Caruana’s own city, then really, he’s earnt what’s coming to him.” 

Kanin’s expression shifts to mirror Jugend’s smug determination. He rises from his seat, reorganising the papers neatly into their folder. “I’ll make some calls then. We should be able to get him here in the fortnight.” 

“Week,” Jugend corrects firmly, and Kanin glances at him. Jugend meets his gaze evenly. “I’m on a schedule now. Fly him in if you have to; just get him here by Sunday week.” 

“What about your other mark?” Kanin asks carefully, and Jugend’s jaw tightens. 

“Depends. Have you got a location on him?” 

Kanin’s expression is impassive. “Not a current one.” 

“Then we’ll start with the most recent,” Jugend answers, pushing to his feet. Alte mirrors him. 

Kanin doesn’t move. “What are you going to do if we run out of time? If we hit your uncle’s deadline?” 

Jugend shrugs, but looks contemplative. “Don’t know. He’s never stopped me before. And I’ve come this far.” 

Kanin’s lips twist into a grimace, but it passes quickly. 

“So what now?” Alte prompts, glancing between them. His knife presses a bruise against his ribs. 

Jugend straightens, running his thumbs down his lapels. “We go make a confession.” 


	24. Sacrament

Alte’s never been particularly good at remembering his saints. He’s been in a church maybe thrice in his lifetime, if he doesn’t count Bieder’s funeral service. 

It’s always struck him as a surreal experience, the vastness of the space. The way the ceiling seems to recede beyond sight, the neat lines of the pews, sacred in their uniformity. Even the decor had intrigued him; the gold leaf detailing along the altar, the procession of blue-themed artwork, the visceral red of the priest's stole. 

Alte doesn’t think priests are supposed to wear this much red. Not holy ones, anyway. 

The man is sprawled back on the marble tile, hands splayed over the nebulous swirls of cream and white as he huffs a sharp breath and looks up at Alte with wide, shifting eyes. They might be blue, he’s not sure, is finding it hard to focus on much more than the shiver of the man’s limbs and the steady grip he’s got on the gun levelled at the priest’s knee. 

He hasn’t had to shoot him, yet. Kanin had executed the first blow - a glancing shot that had spread crimson across the older man’s ribs, painting the pews he’d been standing beside, and ricocheting loudly through the empty church like lightning. Alte doesn’t need to glance up to know Kanin’s hovering at Jugend's flank; he can sense the man’s anchoring presence, discern his position from the frightened glances the priest keeps throwing behind Alte. 

He firms his grip and clenches his jaw. 

“I didn’t catch your name, Father,” Jugend says from where he has his elbows leaned up on a pew, clasped hands lolling forward as if in prayer. 

Alte gets the distinct impression Jugend would much rather the priest were on his knees, but having him collapse to the tile is a good consolation prize. The man’s gaze shifts to Jugend, drinking him down as his features tighten and smooth to placid amicability. 

“Father Reardon, son,” he answers with the barest twang of an accent. And then, with the imploring pacification of a holy man, “I think you’ve confused me with someone else.” 

Jugend’s smile is coy and patient. “I don’t think so, Father. You know my name?” 

The man hesitates for the barest second, but Alte can’t discern why. “Who you are doesn’t matter to me, my boy. If you leave now, I can assure you, I won’t-” 

“I asked you a question,” Jugend overrides him loudly, the first hint of hard impatience entering his tone. It makes Alte’s pulse skip in response, hitching into a new, persistent rhythm. 

“Jugend Erdefunfte,” the man replies with distaste, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at Jugend himself. 

The mafioso inclines his head in assent. “Have you worked out why I’m here, then?” 

“I don’t pretend to know your family’s dealings in my ward,” Reardon replies baldly, his tone flat but not disrespectful. 

Jugend’s smile doesn’t shrink, but it does plateau into measurable animosity. “This has nothing to do with my family. So I’ll ask you again, Father; do you know why I’m here?” 

“Whatever you’re seeking, you won’t find it here, my boy.” 

“If you call me boy again, I’ll burn this building down when I’m done with it,” Jugend says flatly, and the priest startles. Alte glances over his shoulder to where Jugend has straightened to his full height, imposing in his sunlit-painted reckoning. 

Kanin shifts beside him, hands sliding into the small of his back, formidable and unnervingly focused on the man at their feet. Alte exhales roughly, and turns back to the priest. 

“Please answer their questions,” he entreats gently, and the priest’s gaze snaps to him, assessing. 

Then his brow pinches in sympathy. “You don’t have to do this, son,” he replies gently, his tone coaxing. “You know it’s not right.” 

Alte stiffens at the knowing in that tone, heat pooling in his veins to set him to simmering worry. Behind him, he hears Jugend shift, feels the burn of his gaze on the back of his neck. Alte loosens his shoulders and lowers his gun. 

“Alte,” Kanin says, gentle but crisp. Almost warning, but not yet. 

He ignores the mafioso, squatting down to sit on his heels as the priest’s gaze flickers with something a hint more hopeful. He lets his features calm, flicks on the safety and folds his hands in his lap. 

“Answer their questions, Father, and no one has to get hurt.” 

“Alte,” Jugend says, thin and wavering on the edge of a razor. Alte casts him a quick glance, but is interrupted by the priest’s relieved mewling. 

“The Spirit’s with you, my son,” he assures him firmly. “You know within you what’s right and wrong. Put an end to this.” 

Alte blinks, shifts his weight until he can holster his gun at the back of his belt. Knows Jugend’s eyes follow the movement as he tucks the weapon snug and then reaches into his jacket. 

The priest’s features slacken when Alte flicks open his blade, folding his hands in his lap again. He can see Jugend’s thin, approving smile in his mind’s eye, lets it soothe the line of his shoulders. 

“I don’t know what you did, Father,” Alte admits gently. “But I would answer his questions if I were you.” 

Reardon’s throat bobs when he swallows, some disappointment or hatred flickering in that blue gaze before he turns to look back up at Jugend. “What do you want?” he asks, level and even. 

Jugend shifts slightly, takes a step forward until Alte can feel the heat of him at his flank. “I want my answers, Father. Do you know why I’m here?” 

“You’re here about a vendetta,” he says, his tone scathingly beneath that thin downturn of his lips. Jugend huffs a soft, unamused laugh, more air than substance. “The revenge you seek will not bring you to the path of the light, my-” 

The ferocity of Jugend’s glare must curb his words, because he swallows that epithet down with an uncomfortable shift, paling when it jostles his ruptured side. Alte spares it a quick, assessing glance, notes that the blood is congealing at the source of the graze now. 

“Where is he?” Jugend asks into the ensuing silence, tight and quiet. It makes every muscle in Alte’s body drawn taut, his palm aching around the knife. 

There’s horror in that tone, thick and surging beneath the veneer of heavy impatience. Something hopeful, something reluctant, something eager. Something that tastes like the bloodlust Alte’s seen on the faces of men with knives, the ones who had that wild look in their eyes when they’d faced him in the ring. The ones that had torn themselves to shreds trying to take him down. 

His next breath comes strained, and for the first time, Alte questions Jugend. Questions whether he actually wants the answer to his interrogation, whether he really wants to know. Whether he knows what he’ll do once he has it. 

It’s the priest’s answer, gentle and sincere, that punches that air straight from Alte’s tight lungs. 

“I don’t know.” 

Jugend takes a half-step forward, and Alte spares him the barest glimpse to confirm that his eyes are _gleaming_ with raw fury, unquenchable hatred, before his lips curl back and he snarls, “What was that?” 

“I don’t know where he is,” the priests repeats, no call to doubt or deception in that tone. He’s not lying. Alte’s aware of Kanin shifting closer. 

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’,” Jugend says, low and violent. 

“You’re too late, son,” the priest says, and Alte sees Jugend’s hand twitch towards his gun. “He left the clergy nine months prior.” 

Jugend’s expression is stricken, wound into stiff ire. “He was a priest?” 

“A deacon,” the priest confirms solemnly. Alte flinches when Jugend’s hand snaps to his holster, yanking his gun free and levelling it at the man. The priest jerks back, drawing in a sharp, stuttering breath, and Alte’s throat swells shut on the indecision to intervene. 

“A _deacon,_ ” Jugend repeats, hissed and visceral. His eyes are alight, tinged with loathing and disgust and something Alte can’t place. “You made him a _fucking_ deacon?” 

“He repented,” the priest says firmly, his tone unwavering in its surety, in its faith. “Truly, genuinely. He saw the error of his ways, and he begged God for forgiveness.” 

Alte takes the time as Jugend draws in a shuddering, sharp breath, to glance back at Kanin. His expression makes Alte still, makes panic take a firm root in the base of his spine. 

He’s… open. Far more open that Alte has ever seen him, grief painted brazenly over his features. His gaze, his attention, his whole being is fixed on the pinch of Jugend’s spine, the hitch of his shoulders as he rolls them. Tries to claw back some semblance of self-control, and Alte watches Kanin’s expression break into thick despair at the sight. 

Alte studiously turns his gaze back to the priest, unable to swallow down the tight concern he knows is layered over his features. 

“He,” Jugend starts, and has to pause to choke down another trembling breath. He shifts, agitated, and tries again, the words bitten out like they’re bitter on his tongue. “He repented. To God. To you, Father? Did he tell you what he did?” 

The priest pauses, though not out of some desire to drag out Jugend’s torment. Alte can see pity in his gaze, sympathy ringing in those blue eyes as he exhales heavily. “Yes, son, he did.” 

Jugend’s grip wavers on the gun, just once. The tremor rises up the length of his arm, until Jugend’s straightening stiffly to quell it, chancing another step forward. “You- you _know_ what he did.” The words are halting, pressed out like they’re being punched from his lungs. They sound betrayed. “He _told_ you. You _heard_ every word of what he fucking did. And you _forgave_ him? Gave him a home? A shelter? Protection? God’s good fucking graces to hide behind?” 

“Everyone is capable of being forgiven,” the priest says solemnly, carefully. Still earnest, still rigorous in his faith. “And everyone is capable of forgiving.” 

Jugend’s response is instantaneous. He leers forward, eyes flashing violently as he thrusts the gun out and sneers through bared teeth, “Go _fuck yourself._ He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. He deserves to be put down like a fucking _dog_ for what he did to me.” 

“It was despicable,” the priest agrees, slowly, placating. “Deplorable. But not unforgivable.” 

Jugend makes a soft, choked cry. Almost soft enough that Alte misses it. But in the hollowness of the empty church, it rings loud and clear in his ears. Yanks his lungs down into the pit of his stomach at the sheer _grief_ to it. 

This is not what they had planned, Alte is sure of it. He hadn’t been privy to Jugend and Kanin’s scheming, but their intentions were clear enough. 

They have not achieved them. They wanted this man, whoever he is, and he’s not here. Long gone, if the priest is to be believed, and Alte has no reason not to believe that his assessment is the truth. They are too late, and this is _not what they planned._

Kanin seems to recognise this too, because Alte hears him shift, and then he’s pressed against Jugend’s side, easing the rigid line of his gun arm down. His hand wraps tight around Jugend’s upper arm, imparting fortitude, imparting _comfort._

Above all else, it’s that - the sight of Kanin reassuring Jugend in such blatant terms - that makes Alte’s gut squirm with unease. 

“He’s not here,” Kanin says, gentle and terse, into Jugend’s ear. His gaze is fixed on Jugend’s eyes, on the way they swim with loss, though Jugend’s eyes haven’t shifted from the priest. Kanin swallows. “We’re not going to find him here. We have to go. We’ll find him some other way, through someone else-” 

“Forgiveness can be yours too,” the priest interjects, loud enough to be heard over Kanin, who cuts off abruptly to glance back and down at him. His blue gaze is fixated on Jugend though, at the slow, numb way he blinks through his rage. “Catharsis, closure. You can have it, my boy, if you just _forgive._ If you let the Lord into your heart, and let him show you the way to forgiveness.” 

“Forgiveness,” Jugend croaks, throat thick with the tears that Alte can see beading in his eyes. He can’t look away from the sight of them, glistening in the afternoon light. “You think I could forgive that?” 

“Yes,” the priest says. 

Jugend’s lip trembles, arching into a snarl. His words are still quiet when he says, “Then you don’t understand what he did to me.” 

The priest shakes his head. “I know, son. He told me-” 

“I said you don’t _understand,_ ” Jugend snaps, loud and hard like a gunshot in the quiet. Alte’s too stunned to flinch. 

“I- I cannot empathise, no,” the priest allows with thick discomfort, “but I can sympathise. And it was through sympathy that I found the way to forgiving him. Through repentance, we can all find forgiveness.” 

“You can’t _forgive_ that,” Jugend spits, tone raw. It scrapes against Alte’s insides like a knife, nausea curling in the top of his stomach. “It’s not _yours_ to forgive.” 

“None of us are free of sin,” the priest says, ignoring his haunted words. “We are all called to repent, to be forgiven. And forgiveness is offered freely to those who seek to repent our sins. Sometimes, it takes an unfortunate situation to remind us of that.” 

Jugend jerks like he’s been slapped, and Alte watches Kanin’s grip tighten on his bicep. Can’t tell if it’s steadying or restraining with how tight Kanin’s jaw is wired shut. He looks unsteady himself, incapable of focusing on anything other than the way Jugend is _trembling_ in his fury. 

“Unfortunate,” he repeats, the word hollow and lifeless. 

The priest looks at him critically, as if he’s rueful that he’s been called to enlighten the man standing above him. “We are all guilty of sin, my boy. And it is only through repentance that we can find forgiveness from that sin.” 

Alte sees when Jugend coils. Sees the tremor slide from his shoulders as they pull back. As his grip sures on the gun in his palm, and that glassy look slides over his lens. “Sinful. You think I’m- Do you think I needed to endure that to realise my _sin,_ father? That I _earned_ that misfortune?” 

The priest’s jaw is tight and terse for a moment, his eyes hardening slightly beneath the accusation in that tone. His words are gentle but steady when he says, “We get what we deserve, my boy.” 

Jugend’s chin lifts, the mist clearing from his eyes to be replaced with hard, cold resolution. He nods once, dazedly, and Alte shifts slowly up to his feet, his gaze trained on the man. 

“Tell me again, Father,” he implores, his tone cruel and even, “that we get what we deserve.” 

When the priest opens his mouth, a breath spiraling into his lungs, Jugend buries a bullet in his throat. The crack of the shot in his ears makes it feel as though Alte’s brain is slamming against his skull, his muscles snapping tight at the sudden explosive repercussion. 

Jugend’s features wash with numb calm as he lowers the gun, thumbs the safety on reflexive instinct, and Alte’s gaze follows the trail of his arm as it slides back to hang at his side. When his stare jumps up, Kanin’s features are washed pale, fixed on the priest. He can see anger, terror, sorrow, in those dark eyes, and it chills him down to his marrow. 

Kanin’s hand slides down to wrap around Jugend’s wrist, to yank the no doubt still-hot barrel from his grip and tuck it into the back of his belt. Kanin’s gaze flicks up to meet Alte’s, his expression drawn tight as he says, “Take him back to Goose. I’ll clean this up.” 

Alte doesn’t move but to lift his gaze to Jugend, to where his stare is still buried somewhere in the priest’s throat with that bullet. 

“ _Alte,_ ” Kanin says, strained and as close to a plead as Alte has _ever_ heard fall from the man’s lips. His brow is pinched when he next glances up, feeling like all his motions are weighed down. “Please, take him home.” 

He forces himself to nod, aware that it comes across stiff and jerking, and steps forward to replace Kanin’s hand when he pulls away. Turns Jugend away from the carnage, back up the aisle. Jugend’s gaze snaps down to him when he does, pinning Alte in place and stealing his breath for the barest second as they both pause. 

Then it seeps into numb impassiveness, the distance chilling where they stand less than a foot apart. 

“Let’s go,” Alte croaks hoarsely, and squeezes down on the taller man’s arm. Guides him down the aisle on quickening steps with his heart splintering in his throat. 

Alte doesn’t look back. 


	25. Detriment

Jugend springs back to his usual self faster than Alte knows what to do with. Aside from the evening he secludes himself to his room with his laptop and called-in takeout, he seems wholly unaffected by the past week’s events. Jugend’s demeanour ricochets back up to smooth confidence with blinding speed. 

It makes Alte a little nauseous to watch. All he can picture is the tremble of Jugend’s hand, the way he’d looked like sifting sand standing above that priest, robbed of fortitude and foundation. He doesn’t know what to make of the impeccable charisma of the man across the counter from him now, but he knows better than ever just how much of a smokescreen it is. 

Jugend seems to realise it too, because it dampens after a few days of aggressive optimism, dimming to a more palatable narcissism that Alte finds easier to digest, even if he can’t say why. At least his worry for Jugend dissipates in the wake of it. If Jugend has levelled out, Alte will too. 

It’s Kanin that keeps the acid in his stomach turning. The man hasn’t shifted from Jugend’s side since he returned from his clean up. He seems to gravitate around him, more solemn and stern than Alte’s seen him before. There’s an ache to him that Alte can feel in his own chest, a lean to his posture that suggests he needs to be closer to Jugend, protecting him. 

In all honesty, it makes Alte feel like he’s intruding on something. Between taking Kanin’s job and now the scare at the church, Alte can’t help but feel like an imposter to something he has no place being involved in. An other looking in on their lives. 

Which is why he doesn't hesitate when Kanin asks him to join him downstairs for a cigarette. 

Alte wipes his hand dry on the teatowel he’s holding, and refuses to meet Jugend’s stare when it flickers between the pair of them. 

“Both of you?” he asks, his gaze pointed where it rests on Kanin. 

Kanin draws in a steadying breath, and leans a hip up on the counter next to him, hands slid into his pockets and head tilted down to meet his unwavering stare. 

“It’s not like that,” Kanin says gently, and the tone makes Alte pause where he’s headed for the front door. He thinks Kanin might want to touch Jugend, to reassure him, though he never moves. It feels intimate in a way that makes Alte’s stomach sink in misplaced longing. 

“You don’t smoke,” Jugend says tersely, and there’s something more to it, something only they share in that unbroken space where their gazes meet. 

Alte scuffs his shoes and tries to focus his attention out the broad balcony windows, to give them some privacy. 

“It’s _not_ like that,” Kanin repeats, soft but firm. “I just want to update the kid, that’s all. Need to make sure he’s equipped to keep you safe after that incident. Alright?” 

It’s a few long, hard minutes, wherein Alte imagines Jugend is scouring Kanin’s gaze, before he exhales roughly and acquiesces. 

Kanin wastes no time in turning to meet him, nodding towards the front door. “Let’s make this quick.” 

They head into the elevator in silence, but Kanin doesn’t hit the button for the lobby. Alte eyes the backlit button for the basement garage warily, and then shoots a pointed glance at Kanin. 

When he doesn’t acknowledge it but to lean back against the railing, Alte straightens stiffly in counterpoint. “Is this the part where you off me and throw me in the trunk of a car, or should I be worried?” 

Kanin gives him a tight, tense smile, hands folded neatly in front of him and head tilted back against the mirrored walls as the elevator descends. “You should be worried.” 

Alte hesitates just a second, before lifting his gaze to watch their progress on the lit panel. “Well, fuck.” 

They don’t speak the rest of the short ride down, and Alte spends the time meticulously tempering the surge of adrenaline that’s now coursing through his veins down to an appropriate simmer. If Kanin’s going to strike for him, Alte wants to be ready to retaliate. And if he doesn’t, Alte wants plausible deniability. 

Either way, he’s treading a dangerously fine line. The sentiment settles like bitter ash on the back of his tongue as the doors open on the concrete garage. 

Kanin strides forward, posture immaculate, and Alte reluctantly trails him. The older man waves an absent hand in his direction as he heads for the car, fishing his keys from his pocket. “Light a cigarette.” 

Alte’s tone is sharp as he responds, aware that his posture is over-tense, “Why?” 

Kanin doesn’t falter as he rounds a column on the black sedan. Alte realises with startling paranoia that the last time he was in a basement like this with just another grunt, he had a building dropped on him. 

It doesn’t soothe his electrified veins any, but Kanin doesn’t acknowledge it. “Because I need Jugend to smell the smoke on us or he’s going to think we’re up to something. And I don’t need him thinking we’re doing something behind his back.” 

“Aren’t we?” 

Kanin gives him a look that makes Alte’s steps falter, and jams the keys into the trunk’s lock. 

“I thought you said there wasn’t going to be a trunk,” Alte protests warily. 

Kanin gives him a wry stare, interspersed with odd confusion that looks out of place on his characteristically solemn features. “I will hand you my gun if it’ll convince you I’m not going to kill you, Alte, but then you have to shut up.” 

“You don’t need a gun to kill me,” Alte returns, but doesn’t move yet. 

Kanin’s brows lift in mild agreement as he rifles through the trunk, gaze dragging down Alte to where his shoes are fused to the worn concrete. “That’s smart; you’ve come a long way, kid.” 

“Yeah, well,” Alte says, and he knows he’s stalling, “you held a knife to my throat the first time I met you, so.” 

“That’s true,” Kanin says, and closes the trunk. There’s a wooden box tucked under his arm. He surveys Alte patiently. “What are you going to do about it?” 

He’s got him there. Alte shuffles his weight as he reaches into his jacket, mumbling, “I’m gonna get a cigarette.” 

“Good call.” 

When Kanin thrusts out a hand for what he belatedly realises is a request for his cigarette, Alte can’t hide his reflexive flinch. Kanin just watches him until he takes a shaky drag and hands it over, fingers itching for his knife. 

Kanin hands it back after a moment, and then offers Alte the small chest. 

His empty hand stays jammed in his pocket. “What’s in it?” he demands around another deep breath of blissfully soothing nicotine, eyeing the box with broad distrust. 

“Take it,” Kanin instructs gently, calmly, and Alte drags his gaze over the man’s unassuming expression before he offers the cigarette and exchanges it for the box. 

It’s sanded-smooth hardwood, void of any distinguishing markings, yet inlaid with a simple, geometric design. It looks handmade, and Alte wonders dazedly if it’s Kanin’s own work. 

“What’s in it,” he repeats flatly, because he knows enough about getting involved with mobs not to take a package without knowing exactly what’s inside it first. 

“Nothing you’d have to worry about losing your life over,” Kanin replies, and the look Alte gives him must convey that he’s _really_ not in the mood for cryptic mind games, because Kanin sighs and slides his empty hand into his pocket. Alte’s gaze follows the movement, wary of a threat. “Don’t open it. You just need to hold it in safekeeping for me. There’s no need-” 

In a quick flick of his wrist, Alte disengages the clasp and flips the hinged lid open, gaze falling swiftly to study its contents. 

Kanin sighs like he’d expected that, and takes another drag of the cigarette while Alte’s brow knots. 

Several faded yellow sleeves, torn down their spines like someone’s cut them open with a knife. _Quickly,_ if the serrations are anything to go off. Panicked. And nestled within them, neat singular black thumb drives. 

“Sticks. And envelopes. Ten, to be exact.” 

Alte lifts his gaze, studies his expression, the drawn lines beneath that calm mask. “Why sticks? What’s on them? Why are they important?” 

Kanin drops the cigarette and stubs it meticulously beneath the toe of his dress shoe. Then smooths down his suit with his tarred hands for good measure. “They’re all marked. Numbered. Do me a favour and don’t watch them.” 

“What’s on them?” Alte asks immediately. 

Kanin gives him a look so dry it could spark a flame. The kind that precedes lit fuses. “What would be the point of telling you not to watch them just to tell you what’s on them?” 

“To convince me not to watch them.” 

“Alte.” 

He blinks at the warning to that tone. Not dark and thin like a knife, hovering over his head, promising swift and unflinching violence. This one is soft and dreadful, soaked with guilt. 

“I’m sorry to give them to you,” he says quietly, glancing at the box. “But I need them out of my reach. That’s all I’m asking; that you keep them, and you don’t watch them. _Don’t_ watch them.” 

Alte swallows thickly. “What, no threat?” 

“If you need a threat, I can give you one,” Kanin returns. “But I’m asking you, as Jugend’s second, not to watch them. I’m not the one you’ll betray if you do.” 

That slides down the length of Alte’s spine like a cube of ice, chilling him a few noticeable degrees. Kanin hasn’t moved, is still watching him, as if trying to work out whether he’ll keep to his word. 

“Whose are they?” he asks instead of agreeing. 

“Mine,” Kanin answers. “They’re copies. The originals were destroyed. I’m the only one that knows they exist.” 

That sounds _immensely_ dangerous to Alte, and he winces, sliding the lid shut. Kanin’s gaze stays fixed on it for a long moment. “Why me then?” 

“Because I need them where I can’t get to them. And where Jugend won’t find them.” 

_That_ makes Alte recoil. “ _Why_ don’t you want him-” 

“It’s my insurance policy,” Kanin says, which does absolutely nothing to assuage his fears. “It has nothing to do with you. It’s not going to come back and bite you in the ass, I promise you. If Jugend discovers that these exist, he’ll come for me, not you. You lose nothing by holding them.” 

“So what do you expect me to do with it?” 

Kanin shrugs. “Keep it. Hide it. Bury it, if you have to. Whatever you need to to ensure Jugend never finds it, and I can’t get to it.” 

“And if you threaten me?” Alte prods, tone steeling defensively. 

“I won’t,” Kanin answers. He sounds very sure. 

“But _if_ you thr-” 

“I won’t, Alte,” Kanin repeats with a shake of his head. “It’s not worth spilling any more blood over. I’m giving you this because I _trust_ you. Because _Jugend_ trusts you. And you may not realise it, but that means an awful lot to me. So please, just take it.” 

Every morsel of Alte’s being is demanding he drop the box. That he hand it back and walk away. Do whatever he has to to ensure Kanin takes the fucking box and doesn’t ask anything else from him ever again. Screams at him how _suicidal_ this favour is, and fuck, he thought he was done pulling suicidal feats to impress his bosses. 

“Okay,” Alte says hoarsely, fingers aching where they grip the box. 

Relief is the wrong word for the expression that flits over Kanin’s features. Something does settle, comforted and consoled by his agreement. But there’s guilt there too, regret immediate and constrained. 

Alte can’t help but frown at it, but it clears just as quickly, and in the next second Kanin is straightening to brush past him, headed for the elevator. 

“Move it to wherever you need to. I’ll tell Jugend you’re running an errand. Don’t take more than an hour, if you can help it. And Alte?” 

He forces himself to lift his head, to meet Kanin’s gaze where he’s paused in the bowels of the garage, dim and dark. Hollow. Empty. Too far away for Alte to gauge his expression. 

“Thank you.” 


	26. Torment

Their man arrives from Malta three days early and spitting fire. 

Kanin and Alte get the pleasure of escorting him into the less maintained basement of a warehouse in the South Works, shoving the hooded man down the short flight of stairs and through a partially rusted door that shrieks on its hinges when Kanin tugs it open. 

Alte hasn’t had much opportunity to talk to him outside of Jugend’s earshot, and even if he had, Alte’s not sure he has all that much he wants to say about Kanin’s impromptu ‘gift’. 

He’d stayed true to his word and stashed it, and to his credit, Kanin hasn’t so much as mentioned it since. But every now and then when their eyes meet - like they do now, Alte gets the impression that Kanin wants to ask, that he’s swallowing back the impulse to know. But he doesn’t, so Alte keeps his end of the bargain and doesn’t look at what’s on those thumb drives despite the simmering urge to. Remembers Kanin’s haunted words in his ears. 

_I’m not the one you’ll betray if you do._

As it has every time before, the guilt wins out, and Alte shoves down the urge with practiced patience, grip tightening on the fistful of the man’s collar as he marches him past Kanin into the basement. 

Jugend follows them leisurely, with the calm air of a man about to enter a poker tournament with a failsafe technique for counting cards. He’s unnervingly quiet behind Alte’s left shoulder; he hadn’t made a single noise during their drive, or when Alte had hauled the man from the trunk. Hasn’t given any indication that he’s tailing the man, watching his struggles with quiet rapture. 

He’d thrashed, but that had been expected. Alte is more than well-versed on how to pin a writhing opponent, with or without a knife in his palm. And he doubts this man will cave to gun threats, given that he’s probably guessed his fate by now. 

There’s not much you can bargain for with a man headed to the gallows. 

Kanin still kicks out his knee with a growl of, “Be _still,_ ” when they get him to the center of the concrete floor. It slopes slightly downwards towards a small drain, and whilst the concrete itself is immaculately clean, Alte can see a circle of red-brown grit caked around the seal of the drain. He’s not naive enough to think it’s rust. 

The man does still, to Alte’s surprise - but not consolation - slumping forwards slightly to relieve the ache in his shoulders and twist his wrists in their cuffs. He probably can’t see them through the thick weave of the black bag that’d been pulled down over his head when he’d arrived, but Alte’s sure he can feel the tight bite of duct tape that holds his hands bound in fists in front of him. His breathing is laboured, but without seeing his face, Alte can’t tell if it’s from exertion or fear. He’s prepared for both. 

Which is why he doesn’t react when Kanin selects a length of chain from a workbench with a measured, weighted patience. It’s heavy in his palm, scraping harshly against the wooden benchtop when he turns back to where they’re waiting, Jugend hovering a few steps behind, silent as ever. 

The man does, however, react, and react violently. He tries to lurch to his feet, but Alte just sinks his nails into the man’s shoulder, through the faded material of his ruffled suit, with a pressure that would have broken skin. As it is, the man yelps and stills with a petered groan. 

Kanin doesn’t even acknowledge the movement, tracking back across the basement to sling the chain over an exposed length of pipe, hauling it through until it dangles readily on each side of the steel. It glints maliciously in the fluorescent light as Kanin turns to face them, and Alte takes that as his cue. 

The man does dig his heels in when Alte yanks him to his feet, but he’s not coordinated or prepared enough to counter him when Alte shoves him forward. 

Kanin takes him when they march close enough, his hand flashing out to seize the band of the cuffs, and the man starts in surprise. His eyes are sharp and focused in the light, predatory in a way that is both admirable and unnerving. 

Alte winds a hand around the man’s neck, above the tight circle of duct tape around his collar, and squeezes down on his windpipe when the man tries to break Kanin’s grasp. It’s enough distraction for the other mafioso to loop the chain beneath the band, and cinch it tight with a thick keylock. 

He steps back then, swinging an arm out to snag what remains of the chain and pass it to Alte. Then Kanin seizes a handful of the hood and rips it from the man’s head. 

From the scream it earns him, Alte wouldn’t be surprised if he took some follicles with it. Kanin doesn’t seem fazed by the wild look in the man’s eyes, the flush to his cheeks. He just tosses the bag aside with indifference, and retreats back to Jugend’s side as the man sucks in a few sharp breaths and surveys his surroundings. 

“Haul him up,” Kanin orders when he reaches Jugend, who has watched the whole ordeal with impassive intrigue. 

Alte doesn’t hesitate to loop the chain over his forearm, taking a measured step back towards the drain as he pulls in the slack. Watches the man’s arms lift with the strain until he all but hangs from them. He’s heavy, but not the heaviest Alte’s ever lifted, so he sets his weight in a stance and bears it. 

It’s not until he’s made a few stilted, laboured swings across the concrete that their guest seems to notice their company. His blue eyes narrow on Jugend, slackening for a moment in surprise until they flatten into coy animosity. He gathers himself as Alte sures his grip, trying to pass off his unease. 

Jugend watches, and says nothing. Alte gets the impression he’s amused. 

The man huffs out a tight, choked breath, baring teeth in a wavering grin. “Look at you,” he tries to sneer, but it comes out as more of a wince. “Didn’t you just fill out nicely. Still got those lovely, long legs though.” He jerks his hips forwards a little, beckoning, and Jugend smiles patiently through sharp teeth. “Come wrap them around my waist again, little prince, and I’ll show you all the new moves I’ve learnt.” 

Jugend watches him for a long, pregnant minute. Then he says, without so much as glancing at Kanin, “Dislocate his ankle for me.” 

The man doesn’t look surprised by that, but he does suck in a sharp hissing breath when Kanin steps forwards into his space with taut, lethal grace. Kanin cocks his head slightly, holding the man’s gaze as he obstructs Jugend from his view. 

“Get him on his toes,” he instructs evenly, and Alte wraps the chain once around his forearm, leveraging his weight against it. He strains until the man’s fully elongated, watching him ascend inch by inch, until only his toes are flat to the pavement. “Hold him until I tell you otherwise.” 

Then Kanin slides down to one knee, severing his gaze as he wraps one hand around his heel and inspects the strain on the joint. His dark eyes travel the length of the man’s leg as he shuffles slightly, desperate for the barest footing. Kanin grasps the man’s soleus, smiling to himself. 

“Don’t move,” he advises with practiced care, and Alte watches the man twitch reflexively before Kanin twists and dislocates his ankle. 

The scream is immediate, and Alte watches Kanin’s fingers bleach white around the man’s limb as he thrashes briefly, kicking out with his other foot, as if to pull away. Kanin keeps his gaze centred on the man’s face and waits there until he slumps, panting. 

His face looks too pale, and Alte knows that sensation. He’s muttering something to himself, a string of curses, and Kanin smirks as he relinquishes his grip. The man whines sharply when he does, as his foot takes the rest of his weight and Kanin slides up to his full height. 

“Want me to do the other too?” Kanin asks conversationally, and it takes Alte a moment to realise he’s addressing Jugend, who’s on the balls of his feet now. 

Jugend slides his hands into his pockets, the smile gone but the amusement still lingering in his gaze. “No, that will do,” he says, and Kanin steps back to let him take centre stage. Alte settles his weight and ignores the metal links biting into the meat of his arm. 

“Jesus fuck,” the man spits, lip curling back to bare teeth. “God fuck you, you fucking whore, Christ.” 

“Eloquent,” Jugend quips bluntly, and sidesteps when the man kicks out. It goes wide, and Jugend basks in the rough whine when the man swings aimlessly with the momentum, jostling his injured ankle. 

“The _fuck_ are you looking at?” the man wheezes, and Alte can see the pain swimming in his spiteful gaze. 

“What am I looking at?” Jugend repeats with a soft chuckle. “I’m looking at a dead man.” 

The man doesn’t seem surprised by that, but he does take a moment to heave several long breaths through his strained lungs. “What is this, then? Baby prince gets to try out being a big bad torturer before he kills me?” 

Jugend smiles sharply. He lifts the toe of his shoe to press in just beneath the man’s knee, pushing him gently until the swing of his momentum counteracts the little shove. The man whines through the pain as his ankle rocks, and Alte watches silently, arm aching. “Something like that.” 

“Fuck me,” the man hisses, and tosses his head back to collect himself. Then he laughs, raw and haggard. “Do I get a last meal? Last words? A pity fuck from yours truly?” 

“Hmm, I think not,” Jugend replies with so much measured patience that Alte shakes his head in awe. “I’d take that lewd tongue of yours out, but I’m looking forward to the part where you beg me.” 

“Beg _you,_ little prince?” the man barks around a bitter laugh. His teeth gleam beneath the stark lights when he meets Jugend’s even stare. “Are we doing some role reversal now? If I recall, it was _you_ who was begging me to stick my prick up that cute little-” 

If Alte had been watching Jugend, he would have missed it. But he isn’t, so he sees when Kanin makes a sharp flick of motion with the hands folded at his back. Alte rolls his wrist out of a loop of chain, and has the immense satisfaction of watching the man plummet four inches onto his disjointed limb. 

He screams, high and loud and ringing in the hollow room. It drags across Alte’s ear drums like a bell, stuttering out into a whine, and then a sob. Just the barest hitch of wet breath, but he hears it. 

Jugend does too, cocking his head to one side as he folds his hands into his pockets. “It’s always fucking with you, isn’t it, Perelli?” 

The man stills at the sound of his name, a wash of the first wave of fear splashing onto his features when he looks up again. Jugend doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Is there _anything_ else going on up in that thick skull of yours? Or is ransom and fucking all you’re good for these days?” 

Perelli bares teeth. “I make a living,” he bites out. 

Jugend’s smile is razor thin. “I’m well aware. I’ve been following your most recent exploits. And _exploit_ is a bit on the nose, isn’t it? Governor’s daughter is a bit too upper class for you, isn’t it, Perelli?” 

“Where the _fuck_ did you hear that?” the man grits out, the sound warping into a groan when he shifts his weight off his injured ankle. 

“I do my research,” Jugend answers, settling his weight back on his heels. For a second, Alte thinks he’s talking about the kidnapping, but then Jugend continues, “Did you really think changing your name and slinking off to Malta with your tail between your legs was going to be enough to stop me finding you?” 

_There’s_ the anger Alte had been expecting. It’s not loud, not a bellow or a spewing eruption of fury. It’s soft and tight, smooth as velvet and lethal as a knife. It fits Jugend like a tailored suit. 

Jugend bites it between flashing teeth when he says, “Why the fuck would you think I’d roll over and let that happen?” 

The man huffs a few soft breaths, before he tries, “I thought rolling over was your specialty, little prince.” 

This time, when Jugend kicks down into the top of the man’s shin, Alte’s pretty sure he hears something snap out of place. Perelli bellows in a rush of agony, but Jugend just leverages his arms back to tug his own sleeves off, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it off to Kanin, who’s watching the encounter with rapturous calm. 

Perelli’s head lifts slowly to follow the movement when Jugend unbuttons and rolls back his shirt sleeves, but his gaze narrows on Kanin. “You _kept_ the dog?” 

Jugend casts him the barest glance, before returning to his meticulous work. “This _dog_ is the reason you’re here right now.” 

“Fuck me,” he chokes out around a bitter, wavering laugh. “When I heard about Moreno, I thought his body would be the next to wash up. Should have known better when it didn’t.” He jerks his head at Kanin, garnishing his disapproving attention. “You fucked that tight ass of his yet, or could you not get it in the prude with that stick up there?” 

Jugend scoffs softly to himself, shaking his head as Kanin turns to glance at him with cool disgust. 

Perelli’s eyes flicker over to Alte, unsatisfied with his lack of reaction. “Or did he get a new squeeze after the Ivanovs took out the dog’s good knee?” He beckons lewdly with his hips, grinning under Alte’s impassive attention. “You show him a good time, puppy?” 

“Always with the fucking,” Jugend mutters under his breath, approaching the man where he hangs. Perelli seems to gather himself up sharply, expression tightening when Jugend pauses before him, almost _bored._ “Seriously, do you have _any_ new material, or are you still using the same shit from seven years ago?” 

“You loved my old routine, baby prince,” Perelli replies. His shoe grates against the concrete when he shifts. “Had you screaming for days. Shit no, it was over a week, wasn’t it?” 

Jugend sighs, like this is all tedious, and reaches back to slide his Beretta out of its holster. Perelli stiffens at the sight, arms pulling slightly against the restraints. Alte bites down with his grip on the chain. 

“I’m going to shoot out your kneecap now,” he informs him, and levels the gun on the limb. Perelli flinches back, a whine building in his throat, “for that earlier comment. For all your comments, so far, actually. And after I have, you’re going to apologise. Then we’re going to move onto the next act.” 

Perelli’s breathing is sharp. “Next act? You got this whole play planned out have you, baby pr-” 

The gunshot is next to deafening in the enclosed space, but Alte’s ears are ripped back into full awareness when the volume of the man’s echoing scream fills what quiet remains. Jugend just cocks back the slide with practiced care, and waits out the wailing. 

“God fuck your mother,” Perelli keens when he’s come down from his sobbing. His teeth are bared, his skin both flushed and ashen beneath the streak of tears. “Jesus fuck. You don’t look half as good as you did back then, you stupid slut. Aged like a fucking whore. You still tight back there, or did the years take it out of you?” 

Jugend just rolls his eyes, half-turning to beckon to Kanin. “You want a turn with this fuckwit?” 

“Gladly,” Kanin answers, arms unhooking from the small of his back as he strides forward. There’s a knife in his hand before Alte can discern where he’s drawn it from. 

His hand wraps in the material of Perelli’s once-clean shirt, shredding through the buttons. A few plastic discs clatter at Alte’s feet, chiming against the metal of the drain as Kanin slides his knife up through the remainder before tugging it out of Perelli’s belt. 

Perelli sways a bit with a low, uneasy whine when Kanin unbuckles his belt with one clinical, efficient hand, dropping it at their feet. 

“You ever been castrated?” Kanin asks, and his tone would be conversational if it weren’t lined with cloying loathing. 

Perelli sucks in a sharp breath when Kanin pauses to glance up at him, dark eyes flat and smile razor thin. “You ever castrated someone?” Perelli shoots back with a bravado that Alte could see through from a mile away. 

Kanin hums and unzips his slacks, holding his gaze as he cocks his head and switches his grip on the knife. “More than a few. You ever seen what the inside of your own balls looks like?” 

Perelli’s sharp choke is overridden by Jugend drawling, “Don’t let him pass out from it. I want him conscious.” 

Alte pivots to watch Jugend drag a chair out from under the workbench, spinning it to face the pair of them as Kanin dips his knife into the opening of Perelli’s trousers, hitching it into the soft skin of his thigh. Jugend looks calmer than he’s been in a whole week. Alte does his best to tamper down on the flicker of bright relief the sight sparks in his chest, and anchor himself against Perelli’s renewed thrashing. Jugend takes his seat, crossing his legs neatly as he fixes two burning eyes on the hanging man. 

Kanin takes his time. Alte’s seen knifework, has done knifework himself, back in the rings and under a few of his earlier mobs. But it’s always fast, always over so quickly; the flash of a blade and stinging pain, a bleat of surprise. 

This is _slow._ This is deliberate. This is a mastersmith at work, a painter poised over his canvas. Kanin uses a blade like it’s needlecraft, his incisions precise and dedicated as Perelli shrieks and clutches at air. 

Alte feels every twitch down the length of the chain, vibrating into his numb joints as he watches Perelli’s trousers stain darker under Kanin’s hand. Hears every sob of regret, and thinks that _this_ sounds like repentance to him. 

He doesn’t know what Perelli did, doesn’t know what sin he committed to earn this judgement from Jugend, but Alte _knows_ Jugend. Knows he’s precise and calculated with every decision he makes. 

_This_ is retributive. This is personal. This is him taking his time, exacting the revenge that from the sound of it, Perelli has duly earned. Maybe that’s why his wailing softens to pained mewls after a few minutes, a resignation settling over his agonised features as he sweats and shakes above them, suspended in writhing justice. 

It feels like hours have dragged past before the silence is broken by something other than the hitch of Perelli’s breath. 

“How much did he pay you?” Jugend asks softly, from where he sits, and Kanin glances back with the sharp twitch of his gaze. Jugend’s eyes are fixed on Perelli, shoulders rolled forward and gun hanging in his lap. 

“Who gives a fuck?” Perelli replies, choked around a tight breath. “What does it fucking matter what he paid us?” 

“Because I want to know what I was worth to you, to him. How much did it cost when he sold me out?” 

“Jugend,” Kanin says gently, warningly. 

Jugend shakes his head, gesturing to Perelli. “He knows. Now I want to as well. How _much_ did he pay you?” 

“Why would I tell you?” Perelli sneers hopelessly, voice breaking on the strain of the notes. “I’ve got nothing to lose, baby prince. My silence costs nothing. So why would I tell you what you want to hear?” 

“I’ll let you live,” Jugend offers evenly, and this time Kanin spins to face him. 

“ _Jugend._ ” 

“Shut up,” Jugend returns flatly, eyes fixed where the other man hangs. “You want your life, you tell me what he paid you. Both of you. And I’ll let you live.” 

Perelli’s suspicion doesn’t ebb. “Why?” 

A smile tugs at the corner of Jugend’s lips. “Because you let me live.” 

He rolls up to his full height, gun held easily in his grip as he approaches at a measured, lethal pace. Perelli’s eyes follow his every movement, wary of the lie. 

“You kept me alive after ten _long_ fucking days. So I’ll give you ten days. Ten days to hang here, alone. No one between your thighs to keep you company,” he sneers with rich distaste. “Alone. Starving. You’ll get to see what it’s like, Perelli. Don’t you want to know what that’s like?” 

There’s something predatory to the way he moves, something overkeen in his sharp gaze when Jugend slows and stops before the pair of them. 

“Shit,” he adds on a tight, humourless laugh, when neither of them speak, “maybe your friend Marsh will come back from the ether to bust you out. Who the fuck knows? Better yet, who the fuck cares.” 

His timbre dips into that low, violent range that makes Alte’s pulse rise. There’s no smile on his lips anymore, his jaw tight as he stares Perelli down. The hanged man huffs a short exhale through scraped-raw lungs. 

“So you didn’t find him,” he deduces quietly, no bravado left in that tone. “If it makes you feel any better, prince, I didn’t either.” 

“It doesn’t,” Jugend assures him flatly. Then he unfurls from his terse posture, glancing at Kanin and making a rolling motion with his unencumbered finger, the gun glinting in the light. “Can we wrap this up? I want to get a fucking drink.” 

“Don’t take your eyes off it,” Perelli calls when Jugend holsters his Beretta and turns back for his jacket. Perelli’s volume rises, as if to follow him, wavering and spiteful. “Never know what someone might slip in there.” 

“Put him down,” Jugend instructs, throwing the jacket over his arm as he pivots to address Kanin, and then glances at Alte. “Meet me in the car.” 

“Yes, sir,” they reply in unison, the chorus underscored by the sharp snap of Kanin’s gun cocking. 

The blood flow returns to Alte’s arm remarkably quickly once he sets Perelli down. Kanin checks him over, makes sure he’s definitely dead before he cleans down his gun and holsters it. Alte massages the imprints of the links embedded in his forearm and watches Kanin return the basement to its neat, clinical disposition. 

“We’ll dispatch a clean up team,” he informs Alte as he tucks the chair away and straightens his jacket. Alte falls into step when he heads for the door. “We’re done here.” 

That sentiment resonates wholly through Alte as he casts one glance back at the still body and the trail of blood leaking into the open drain. 

There's a missed call from Ruhe when he checks his phone while idling on the steps outside, waiting for Kanin to latch the warehouse door shut behind them. 

“Can I take a call? It’s my brother,” he asks Kanin over the snick of the lock, and the man glances at him. He looks calm, looks more resolute than he has the past few days, and it soothes Alte inexplicably when he nods without hesitation. 

So Alte hits the redial symbol and wanders a few feet away from the waiting sedan while Kanin slides into the back seat to check on Jugend. 

“Hey, Ruhe,” he says when the other end picks up, and picks at a loose fleck of rust beneath his nail. “What’s up?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can now read a short prequel chapter, [Drugged](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251723). Be aware that it does have some spoilers for Retributory Shroud, in the sense that it will clarify some existing information.


	27. Augment

Alte’s barely surprised when they head for the nearest bar for drinks. On all accounts, he thinks that Jugend’s probably earned it, and when Kanin orders them a round of shots, Alte sucks his down without protest. 

Kanin switches to whiskey immediately after, but Jugend needles Alte into matching his next few shots, so he’s sufficiently buzzed by the time the older man heads out onto the dancefloor. Alte and Kanin take up an easy post at the bar, drinks in hand, to scan the perimeter. It gives them a broad view of the club, and the pulsing dancefloor, where Jugend is currently enthralled with a man a few years his senior, face flushed and laughing. 

Alte crosses his arms and leans up against the counter beside Kanin, neglecting his mostly drunk glass in favour of sweeping the teniente with an analytical gaze. He’s calm, the waters of his anxiety still as he watches Jugend writhe beneath the dim lights, and Alte finds himself unwinding in Kanin’s easy presence. 

“So,” he says, as casually as he can manage when he’s half-shouting above the throbbing music. 

Kanin casts him a sideways glance, but doesn’t shift. His gaze returns to Jugend after a moment, darkening at the way he’s laughing with the other man. “So,” he returns. 

“Were you going to tell me?” Alte asks, and Kanin stiffens for a brief moment, his shoulders tightening. Then he unwinds again. 

“Tell you about what,” he says blandly. Alte watches him sip his whiskey. 

“I got a call from my brother,” Alte prompts, and is drowned by the music kicking into a higher gear. 

Kanin leans an inch closer. “What?” 

“Ruhe. I got a call from Ruhe,” Alte yells, and then curses. “Can we go outside?” 

Kanin shakes his head sternly. “We’re not leaving Jugend.” 

“Not even for a minute?” Alte asks. The nightclub is throbbing with a force that’s making Alte’s skull ache. There’s only one exit other than through the bathrooms or through to the backroom, so it’s not like Jugend’s going to slip their watch without passing them out the front door. 

“No,” Kanin replies flatly, something dark to his tone. But he does lean back across the counter and beckon one of the staff closer. 

Alte doesn’t catch what he says, but the bartender nods and ducks out of the bar in the next minute. Alte trails him through the crowd until he disappears, and then the music dims to an acceptable cacophony. 

Kanin takes another sip of his whiskey, gaze returning to Jugend. “Better?” 

“Ruhe called me,” Alte says, ignoring that. Kanin quirks a brow, but doesn’t stop drinking. “Saying something about a cheque that came in the mail.” 

Kanin makes a note of vague interest, and drops his empty glass onto the counter. It’s whisked away in a heartbeat, but his eyes never part from Jugend. Alte huffs in amusement. 

“Said it was for sixty grand.” 

Kanin makes a low whistling noise. “I’ll be damned.” 

Alte shakes his head. “Really?” 

“What?” 

“Is this payment?” Alte demands with stark discomfort. He doesn’t want the favour to feel like a bribe, or some sort of professional courtesy. It feels far too personal for that. “For taking the-” 

Kanin’s brow pinches with confusion and concern, finally looking at him. “No, it’s not- I wouldn’t pay you for that.” 

Alte crooks a brow. “Then what, you just happened to _gift_ my family sixty thousand dollars out of the goodness of your heart? I didn’t think we knew each other that well, to be honest.” 

That confusion spreads, something deeper to his gaze, and Alte wonders absurdly if he’s hurt Kanin’s feelings. Then the man says plainly, “Jugend asked me to find them a place to live. I figured this was a good interim gift until I could find somewhere suitable.” 

“So?” Alte prompts, and Kanin arches a brow in response. “Is it just business, or is it a gift? Did you do it because Jugend told you to, or because you wanted to?” 

Kanin _squirms_ in the dim lighting reflected off the bar, jaw clenching and unclenching as he chooses his words. “It’s… a gift. Jugend didn’t tell me to, no.” 

“Why are you giving my family money?” 

Those brows lift in cool consideration. “Do you want me to take it back?” 

Alte startles. “I- _No,_ of course, I don’t. They could really use that money. It means a lot to them. But-” 

“But?” Kanin prods, pointed. Alte thinks he’s being defensive, trying to return him to the back foot. 

“But that’s a _lot_ of money. Kanin, I can’t let you just _give_ your money away like that-” 

“It’s not my income,” Kanin replies with a shake of his head. “It’s a windfall that I don’t need and I don’t want.” 

“It’s still _yours_ ,” Alte presses. 

Kanin straightens with a dumbfounded expression. “You’ve got a strange way of looking at money, kid. Do you know how much Jugend’s family pays me?” 

Jugend materialises from the dim gloom of the dancefloor, snagging Alte’s drink and half-sprawling over the counter. He’s flushed and vibrating with energy in a way that entices Alte to lick the sweat from his skin. He bites down on his lip to curb the suggestion as Kanin casts a quick eye over him. 

“Too damn much,” Jugend mumbles breathlessly over the rim of the glass, curled around a smile. 

Kanin nods. “Far too damn much and far too little to put up with his brat ass.” 

“Technically a registered Illinois corporation pays your salary,” Jugend points out, and slams the empty glass back down on the wood. “Not my family.” 

“A _hollow_ corporation, owned by your family,” Kanin calls in response when Jugend dashes back to the floor. His eyes follow him into the mess of writhing bodies, and Alte has no doubt that he doesn’t lose track of Jugend for a second. 

“Still your money,” Alte says after a moment, and Kanin rolls his eyes, flagging down a refill for him that appears almost immediately. 

“Inheritance money. It doesn’t count.” 

Curiosity flares. “Inheritance money? From who?” 

“My father,” Kanin answers with a twist of his lips. Alte can’t tell if he’s disgusted or pleased. “Turns out my mother took out a policy on him years back. He’s been missing for nine years. Apparently my brothers declared him dead. They divided his estate and paid out his life insurance.” 

“You don’t sound so sure.” 

Kanin’s brows raise. “Oh no, he’s definitely dead. Put the bullet in him myself. I’m just surprised _they’re_ playing along.” 

Alte swallows past the immediate horror, but Kanin doesn’t miss it. A wry smirk filters onto his lips, and he swills his drink, eyes fixed on the amber liquid. 

“Trust me, Alte, I think you and I tread similar paths when it comes to disappointing father figures. And like I said, it happened nearly a decade ago. I’m well past that sort of behaviour now.” 

Alte doesn’t have enough sobriety left in him to work out how old Kanin would have had to be when he shot down his father. He really wishes Jugend hadn’t pilfered his drink, so he could have something else to focus on besides the analysing glint of his boss’ gaze. 

“You don’t get along with your brothers?” he asks instead, and flags down the absent bartender. He can’t imagine being removed from Irre and Ruhe. Even a state over he feels like he’s missing a limb. 

Kanin makes a complicated noise in the top of his throat and shifts his weight. It’s the closest to uncertain that Alte’s ever seen him, but he still manages to be cagey about it. “Haven’t seen them in a long time, so it might be different now. But we don’t keep in touch.” 

“Don’t know how to or don’t want to?” Alte prompts, and Kanin looks at him with a stare so deep he feels its pressure down to his bones. 

“Not all of us have great relationships with our siblings, Alte,” he replies softly. “Last I checked, we had a difference in philosophy. I left it at that.” 

Alte’s definitely beginning to feel the alcohol, because the words slide off his loose tongue before he can think better of it. “Are they homophobic?” 

Kanin’s brow quirks, and Alte gets the impression that he’s overstepped a boundary, but Kanin - for whatever reason - is in a good enough mood to humour him. “Not gay, kid.” 

Alte frowns, glances into the crowd where Jugend thrashes in time to a bass heavy number. “I thought-” 

Kanin barks a laugh and shakes his head. “No, I’m definitely- _Yes,_ to that. But no, I’m not gay.” 

“Am I allowed to ask?” Alte entreats tentatively, bracing for a refusal. 

Kanin shrugs an uncaring shoulder. “Not a lot to tell. I like fucking. I like people. I _really_ like fucking people. I just don’t find them all that compelling sexually.” 

Alte’s not quite sure he understands, but it’s the most personal information he’s gotten out of Kanin without a knife or a gun being pointed at him, so he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Kanin’s still watching him, a glint of amusement to his gaze as he inhales the peat and smoke of his whiskey with a wry smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about _that._ ” 

“About what?” 

Kanin’s head jerks in Jugend’s direction, and Alte flushes. “About Jugend. Most people are dying to know if we’re fucking.” 

“It’s not my business,” Alte mumbles, and thinks about how Jugend’s lips had felt around his cock in the back of that car. He hadn’t even thought of Kanin at the time, hadn’t even considered that they might be… intimate. That he might be crossing a line without knowing it. 

Suddenly, nauseatingly, Alte wonders if he helped Jugend cheat on Kanin. If he’s an unwitting accomplice, an adulterous wedge in their relationship. He doesn’t think Jugend would be the sort to cheat on his partners, but then again, he’s never seen the man’s romantic conquests himself. Never even seen him take interest in a date, besides that night with Alte at the gala and the man he’s currently grinding up against. 

The one Kanin has been keenly eyeing like he wants to relocate some of his joints. And as cowardly as it may be, Alte doesn’t want that gaze turned on him. Doesn’t want to be within reach of the hands that an hour ago were methodically and clinically taking apart a man. 

Alte swallows and turns his gaze back to Jugend, unease churning lazily in his gut as he thinks the night of the gala over. Thinks of how uncomfortable Jugend had been at the suggestion that it was a date. Thinks of how _eager_ he’d been to initiate something between them, how he’d teased Alte with soft words and a coy smile. Thinks of every other time the topic has come up between them before, and Jugend had shut him down at the suggestion. 

Kanin’s gaze slides over him, and returns to the man on the dance floor, who is swaying in time with Jugend, a large hand guiding his hip. “Well,” he says, his tone indiscernible beneath the distortion of the music, “when you want it to be your business, let me know.” 

Alte doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he drinks slowly and keeps his eyes on Jugend. Tampers down on the vague frustration that rises in him at the way the man pushes and pulls him around the floor. 

It’s not until a few minutes have passed, and Alte’s fingers are white from clenching down on his drink, that he recognises the sensation as jealousy. It floors him a little, but the feeling doesn’t alleviate, and Alte shifts irritably. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Kanin mutters beside him, low and venomous. “Any closer and he’d be inside him.” 

Alte smirks, huffing a soft laugh at the _jealousy_ in that tone, and the rush of vindication that floods him. Neither of them make any move towards Jugend though, until the man starts tugging him coaxingly towards the exit. 

They both set their drinks down almost simultaneously, Kanin sighing, “That’s our cue.” 

When they get close enough to hear over the deafening drone of the music, Jugend is laughing and shaking his head, more than a little tipsy but still on his own two feet. Tucked against the man’s side where he’s got his nose buried in the hair behind Jugend’s ear, and - it’s not until Alte sees them together, up close, that he realises with Jugend’s already impressive height, this guy is a _giant_ \- murmuring suggestions around a grin. 

“I can’t,” Jugend chuckles, eyes lidded and grin just this side of dopey. Alte wonders how quickly those shots have saturated his system, is a little impressed that he’s standing as steadily as he is, in fact. 

“Why not?” the man croons, the sound edging into a whine as his palm slides over Jugend’s hip, coaxing. 

Jugend hiccups and giggles, and they’re close enough now that Alte can see the flush on his cheeks. The mafioso tilts his head in their direction as they slow a few feet off, and snickers, “Because they say so.” 

The man glances up, features slackening a bit as he looks them over with a frown. “Who are they? You got a boyfriend, baby?” 

Jugend shakes his head, but whatever hilarious answer he’s concocted is drowned between his slur and his laughter. 

Apparently declaring that a lost cause, the man frowns over at them. “Is there a problem, gents?” 

“Yeah,” Kanin drawls, calmer and easier than Alte expects. Like this is amusing to him. “You’re going to need to let the inebriate go.” 

The man frowns, grip tightening on Jugend’s hip as he leans into him with a soft hum. “I’m not looking to start anything,” he assures them, and Alte thinks he sounds sincere. Doesn’t curb any of the jealousy that touch stokes in him. “He wanted to get some clean air, and I suggested we go back to my place. He was all for it until we got to the door.” 

Kanin shrugs, more a roll of his shoulders than anything else. “That’s fine. Now he’s staying. Let him go.” 

“Look, fellas, I think we could all use some fresh air,” the man placates, gesturing to the front of the club. Kanin’s keen gaze doesn’t waver from his face. “How about one of you gets him a glass of water and we step outside, together?” 

“If you don’t take your hand off him,” Kanin says, tone low and vibrating with warning. It sends a thrill up Alte’s spine, makes him shift a step in Jugend’s direction as the drunk man grins over at Kanin. “I’ll break it for you.” 

Jugend laughs, high and tittering and very obviously drunk. Alte reaches out a hand to brush against his waist, and Jugend swivels to beam at him, the hand that’s not clinging to the man wrapping over his wrist to keep him nearby. His eyes look a bit dazed, edging firmly into intoxicated, but Alte can’t discern the effects of anything unwarranted in his system. 

Then Jugend turns away, glancing the brief inch’s distance up at the man. “Would you fight for me?” he purrs, the words slurred and begging. “Would you do that, for me?” 

“Come on,” Alte soothes, suring his grip more firmly on Jugend’s waist. His impromptu Samaritan doesn’t relinquish his grasp on that hip yet. “Time to go, Jugend.” 

“No,” Jugend protests with a lazy grin. “He’s going to fight for me. They both are.” 

He pauses to snicker, and Alte shoves down the urge to roll his eyes. “No one needs to fight. Come here-” 

“I want to see it,” Jugend whines when Alte extracts him out from under the man’s grip. He lets him go reluctantly, his eyes trained on Alte as he shifts to take Jugend’s dead weight. He’s hot beneath his palms, skin flushed when he leans his head against Alte’s shoulder. His slow breath brings shivers to the surface of Alte’s skin. “Are you two going to fight? Winner takes me home.” 

“Sounds like fun,” Kanin says, and Alte shoots him a glare. He can see the way Kanin’s posture settles into a loose stance, open and ready for anything. Maybe he’s more affected by the alcohol than he’s letting on. 

Alte wonders just how much the man has had to drink, and does a mental tally of how many whiskeys he’s watched him throw back. He doesn’t like the number he comes back with. 

“We don’t need to fight anyone,” Alte reminds him sternly, leveraging Jugend away. Their Samaritan reaches out to rest a palm on his sternum, drawing them to a halt. 

“I don’t think he needs to go home with you,” the man says, and Kanin barks a sharp laugh that draws both their attention. 

“Jugend,” Kanin purrs, “we’re going to take this up outside. Get yourself a glass of water and come watch.” 

Jugend straightens at the words, taking his weight where it leans on Alte with more decorum than he expects. He grins at Kanin, more lucid and direct than Alte can reconcile with the slur of his earlier words. His tone is clear and crisp when he purrs, “Sure thing.” 

Then he blows his Samaritan a quick kiss and heads for the bar. Alte watches him go with a slack jaw, snapping back to attention when Kanin calls, “You want to take him home, big guy? Show me why you should get to.” 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the taunting gleam to Kanin’s eyes, but the man bristles and snaps, “Fine. You’re on.” 

Alte’s left reeling in the wake as Kanin turns on his heels and ducks around the bouncer. The man’s not far behind, and Alte curses under his breath, glancing once at Jugend where he’s grinning at an attentive bartender, before hurrying after them. 

He picks a spot just inside the door that gives him a clear view of Jugend, but gives him an unobstructed view of the pavement at the base of the short flight of steps, where Kanin and the man are now gathered. The night’s air is chilled, frigid on his exposed skin, but Alte stays firmly rooted where he is, glancing back to ensure Jugend hasn’t moved. 

The bouncer evidently recognises Kanin, because he only slides his gaze over the man once before he studiously turns away from where the pair are lifting their fists. 

Alte’s not sure what he wants more - to see Kanin walk away from this unscathed, or to see him taken down a few pegs for trying. He clenches his jaw and resolves to watch. 

The man’s the first to strike, because Kanin seems perfectly content to let the challenge hang between them, but Kanin’s the first to land a jab into the man’s left cheekbone. It sends him reeling back a half-step, which Kanin closes quickly, but it’s not enough to deter the larger opponent. 

It’s… honestly quite mesmerising to watch. Even drunk, balance just the barest inch askew, Kanin’s training is evident. He’s compacted but loose, a small target made smaller, wound tight to spring at a moment’s decision. He doesn’t lack _form,_ per se, but Alte can’t reconcile the very fluid way he rolls into his punches with any sort of formal training. It’s obvious to anyone who’s spent as much time fighting as Alte has that Kanin favours full-body wrestling to boxing; even with his concentration focused on the pivot of his upper body, Kanin’s attention is on his feet, on the shift and counterbalance of his weight to pitch him into the next strike. 

The _sound_ of their blows draws Alte’s focus entirely. Neither of them are pulling their punches, slamming through the distance like they intend to drive through their opponent. They don’t trade all that many blows; it’s a game of circling over the pavement, fists raised to block and eyes gleaming. 

The lips that brush over his ear make Alte flinch, remind him that he has a mark he should be watching, but his alarm dampens immediately when he realises Jugend is at his side. His hazel gaze is on Kanin, but he tilts his head to lean into Alte’s shoulder, a fond smirk on his lips. 

“He’s needed this,” he murmurs softly when Kanin dodges a wayward hook. 

Alte watches him draw closer to the man, before retreating into a broader, lower stance. “The fight or the reminder?” 

“Hmm?” 

Alte glances up at Jugend, whose gaze is tracing Alte’s tight jaw lazily. “He needed the fight to let off some steam, or he needed the reminder that he’s here to fight for you?” 

Jugend’s lips quirk, those lidded eyes lifting to meet his. “You’re getting better at that reading us thing.” 

“It’s a talent,” Alte answers drily, and jerks his attention back to the fight when he hears the dense impact of flesh on flesh. 

The man is retreating from a steady cross, the corner of his jaw beginning to swell. Kanin’s knuckle has split open, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he corals the man across the pavement, returning as many punches as he’s receiving, opening up the man’s posture with some unrelenting footwork. 

It takes a rogue, glancing blow to the side of Kanin’s knee to take him down. The man follows it with a quick right hook that connects with a nauseating thump of knuckles against skin. 

Alte’s heart leaps into his throat, and he feels Jugend tense beside him for the barest moment. Kanin staggers aside, a hand lifting to gingerly press to the split of his brow as he straightens. 

“Fuck me,” he mutters, more stunned than irritated, and grins. “Give me a blood nose to match that.” 

When the man swings at him again, Kanin wraps a hand around his arm and drives his good knee into the man’s ribs with a grunt of echoed pain. He follows it up by ducking under the outstretched limb as the man folds with a wheeze, and wedges the point of his elbow into the man’s exposed kidney. Alte doesn’t quite see what happens, but he thinks the man gets one last, thrashing hook into Kanin’s unprotected ribs before the smaller propels a neat downwards jab across his jaw. 

He slumps to the pavement in an uncoordinated heap, dazed and probably unconscious, to leave Kanin to straighten, panting from the exertion. 

“Well,” Jugend sighs beside him, straightening, “that was a treat.” 

Alte slips into his wake when Jugend descends the handful of steps, close enough to hear him pass an offhanded instruction to the bouncer to get their unconscious Samaritan some medical attention. Then he strolls across the pavement to Kanin’s side and slides his hands into his pockets. 

“Have fun?” he asks brightly, and Kanin turns, dazed gaze refocusing on him like he’s the only person for miles. Jugend lifts a thumb to press to Kanin’s sluggishly bleeding brow, a frown tugging onto his features. “You’re going to have to take some time off after this. How’s your knee?” 

Kanin pauses to test the joint, wincing slightly. “I’ll live.” 

“Course you will,” Jugend returns with a smirk, and flicks a glance in Alte’s direction where he hovers on the peripheral of their conversation. “Alte was very impressed.” 

Kanin looks a little surprised, brow arching as he meets his gaze, and Alte flushes beneath the sudden attention. 

“I’ve never seen you fight before,” he hedges on, and Kanin snorts, swiping at the blood that’s starting to flow more freely to trace the edge of his eye socket. 

“We’ve trained before, remember?” Kanin returns. “I dislocated your shoulder.” 

The joint twinges at the memory, and Jugend shoots Kanin a look that’s slowly heating with concern. 

“You did what?” 

“It’s not the same as _watching_ you fight,” Alte offers by way of reprieve, and if Kanin’s shoulders unwinding is any indication, the distraction is appreciated. “Puts a new perspective on things.” 

His tone is unnervingly provocative when he replies, “Like what you see?” 

Alte’s impressed he manages to shrug as smoothly as he does. “It’s given me a few pointers.” 

Kanin’s lips quirk in a smile, but it’s smothered just as quickly when he turns for the parking garage across the street. “Good to know you’re still paying attention, kid. You’re driving.” 

Jugend rolls his eyes and falls into step between them when Alte grins. “Of course I am.” 


	28. Internment

It takes a week, but a Sicilian someone decides to retaliate for Jugend’s meddling in their smuggling trade. Jugend had been expecting it, so Alte had been expecting it, and the attempt fizzles and dies on the docks of the Calumet. They stick their fist into the gaping maw of Chicago, and the Erdefunfte close on them like it’s their hundredth racket and they’re punching in a shift card. 

It’s the retaliation for the retaliation that comes as somewhat of a surprise, and it comes in the form of an indirect attempt on Jugend’s life. 

The Erdefunftes do what Alte knows any half-decent mafia family would do, and close ranks. No new members in or out. All meetings are suspended or cancelled, and the whole clan goes into lockdown. 

Jugend’s bundled up within the hour and whisked away to the family compound in Barrington Hills. There’s a twenty-man team posted to him on his uncle’s orders, and Alte keeps him company in the back seat of an SUV while he grumbles and gradually resigns himself to his internment. 

Alte doesn’t know why he’s expecting a ‘compound’ to be reminiscent of the photos he’s seen of prison complexes and the like, but the sprawling chateau that rises up over the ridge is not what he pictured. Alte practically presses his dumbstruck face to the glass as they roll up the long drive. 

“You’re shitting me,” Alte says incredulously, deadpan. He turns to face Jugend, glaring. “ _This_ is what you’re complaining about?” 

Jugend blinks, and then laughs. “Let me guess, you think I’m a spoiled, rich brat for hating this place?” 

Alte doesn’t even need to grace that with an answer; Jugend reads it off his face. 

He rolls his eyes as the vehicle coasts to a stop, and reaches over the grunt who’s boxing him in to pop open the door. The grunt doesn’t look particularly happy about that, but Jugend fixes him with a simmering glower and the guy alights poste haste. 

“See how much you like it when you’ve been cooped up here a week,” Jugend recommends, and Alte thinks that sounds like a fucking vacation to him. 

He tries not to linger too long on any details of the place as the pair of them are bundled across the driveway and into the foyer by a wall of impassive muscle. They’re greeted by the chateau’s security director, who immediately debriefs them on the lockdown procedure while Alte desperately tries to take mental notes and spectacularly fails. He’s almost certain this guy is twelve seconds away from handing him a procedural book, so Alte is somewhat desperate to memorise the standard processes before the inevitable quiz. 

Jugend listens through the spiel with irritable inattention, but waits until the director finishes before demanding, “When is Kanin getting here?” 

The security director puffs. “Four days yet, sir. Last I heard, he was attending to business. He’ll need to submit to standard induction procedure upon his arriv-” 

Jugend waves an agitated hand. “Yeah, that’s fine. Where is Alte staying?” 

“East Wing. His room has already been screened and prep-” 

“Move him into my wing,” Jugend orders, swiping open the display on his cell. Alte recognises Kanin’s name, but not the text he rapidly types. “As close to my suite as you can. Move anyone else into the next wing.” 

“Yes, sir,” the security director replies hesitantly, and eyes Jugend’s cell like he’s extracting a very painful thorn from his side. “Sir, I’ve been given direct instructions to detain your phone for the duration of your stay.” 

Jugend pauses for a moment, but doesn’t look up before he taps send. Then he fixes the director with a tired expression. “Whose instructions are those?” 

“Your uncle Redlich’s, sir.” 

A muscle in Jugend’s jaw ticks, but he lays the cell into the man’s outstretched palm without a fight. Alte fumbles for his own when the man turns to him expectantly. 

Jugend’s fingers wrap around his wrist, halting his hand - and the phone in it - when he fixes the director with a cool stare. “He needs his phone.” 

“The instructions were-” 

“He needs the translation services,” Jugend overrides him, green gaze flat and unapproachable. He presses the cell back into Alte’s chest, but doesn’t look away from the man in front of them. “He’ll give you the SIM, but he’s keeping the phone.” 

Alte feels a rush of gratitude, but it stifles the moment the director fixes him with a glare and shuffles his palm impatiently. He swiftly ejects the chip, handing it over as Jugend inspects his nails. Gregori takes it with a twist of his lips, and hands Alte a nondescript black brick cell in return, for ‘emergency internal communications only’. 

“Good enough for you?” Jugend asks coolly when Alte pockets it, and the director grunts his begrudging approval. “Perfect. Don’t interrupt me for the rest of the afternoon.” 

Then he’s brushing past the man, so Alte hastens to fall into step beside him, glad to be rid of the cloying presence of their twenty-man security team. The stone tiles fade to wood and then to marble between one hallway and the next, but it’s not until they enter into a corridor with a row of closed doors that Alte realises he has no clue where they’ve passed through. 

“This place is a maze,” he mutters, and Jugend smiles. 

“You’ve got a few days to get used to it. It grows on you,” he adds with a wry smirk. “Try to stick to the north wing, where we are now, and the chateau proper. You’ll find everything you need here anyway.” 

“Don’t suppose they do room service?” Alte prompts, and skips ahead to hold open the door at the end of the hall that they’re headed towards. Jugend gives him a grin as he passes through. 

“No, but I’d love to see you convince Gregori to make you an omelette.” 

“Might be a good way to pass the time,” Alte answers absently, and stalls out when he turns into the room. 

It has the decor of a hotel, muted gold in all the drapes and carpets. There’s a king-size bed pushed up against the furthest wall, crisp white sheets folded immaculately across its surface. It’s onto this that Jugend sprawls back with a groan as Alte casts his gaze over the small lounge set and study nook in the corner. 

“There’s an ensuite over there,” Jugend says, gesturing minutely as he does his absolute best to destroy the pristine appearance of those sheets with only his hips and spine. Then he folds his arms triumphantly behind his head and grins down his nose at Alte. 

His shirt pulls tight over his stomach, cinched beneath his leather belt in a way that draws Alte’s gaze down to the cradle of his hips before he snaps it away. Forces himself to cross the paisley carpet to the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto sprawling gardens and what Alte thinks is a tennis court. 

“Thought your family called this place a compound,” he murmurs, drinking down all the immaculate greenery. There’s a lake set just behind the house, with a tiled gazebo nestled on its shore. 

“What would you call it?” 

“This place? A manor. A hotel. Fucking paradise,” Alte replies, turning his back to the sprawling grandeur beyond the room. Jugend’s tight but amused expression makes his dispute evident. “You disagree?” 

“You haven’t noticed that we’re practically stranded here?” Jugend prompts lightly, gesturing to the pristine, clinical room. Alte can’t help but notice that the entire building has a distinct barely-lived-in feel. Jugend snorts loudly, claiming his attention again as he sprawls out, staring up at the ceiling. “We’ve basically been sent to the naughty corner for a time out. That’s why this place is a compound.” 

“ _You’re_ being punished, you mean,” Alte contradicts, approaching him where he lays. Jugend turns his head to watch him. “Besides, I thought this was a precaution for the attempted assassination.” 

Jugend rolls his hazel eyes. “We had a building fall on one of our former heads, and no one batted an eyelash. This is an intervention, neatly disguised as a punishment, wrapped up in false concern.” 

“Regardless, we’re stuck here for at least a week,” Alte returns, sliding his hands into his pockets, “so you’d better get used to it.” 

Jugend hums, a smile quirking his lips. “I suppose the company isn’t half bad. Always good to have an accomplice to keep things interesting around here.” 

“Accomplice?” Alte prompts. 

“Do me a favour,” Jugend purrs, ignoring that, and surveys him over a smirk. Alte nods, and Jugend smiles wider when he says, “Light a cigarette up for me.” 

Alte hesitates just long enough to glance up at the smoke detector on the ceiling above them, and back down at Jugend, before he slides his hand into his jacket past his knife. His packet is dented and half empty, but he pulls one out between his lips and tucks the cardboard away. 

“Any particular reason why?” Alte asks around the mouthful of paper, cupping his hands more out of habit than to actually protect the flame as he hits the sparkwheel. He sucks in a slow, igniting breath before stowing it and glancing down at Jugend. 

“Entertainment,” Jugend replies softly, eyes liquid green in the soft afternoon light. Alte swallows, shifting his weight as he fiddles with the cigarette between his lips. “Makes for a handsome sight.” 

He blows out his first drag, frowning down at the man as he rolls the paper between his knuckles. Jugend’s gaze follows its progress, lazily entranced. Alte inexplicably feels like he’s on display for the man, drenched in his attention. It’s not as off-putting as Alte would have imagined. He must be getting used to Jugend’s obsessions. 

Jugend sits upright suddenly, rolling up onto his knees on the bed, and beckons Alte closer. “C’mere. Shotgun me.” 

Alte very nearly drops the cigarette onto the carpet, his slack lips closing around the stick as it starts to fall. Jugend looks amused by his fumbling, and Alte winces and holds his stare with reddening cheeks. “ _Shotgun you?_ ” he splutters. 

The grin he gives Alte is patient and sharp, and he finds his legs moving against his better judgement, carrying him towards the man kneeling on the sheets. He stops a spare foot from the end of the bed, wary of the distance as he sucks slow and long, aware of Jugend’s gaze on his throat and lips. 

“You know what shotgunning is, right?” 

“Yes,” Alte answers, his stomach tightening at the thought of getting that close. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling though, and more than a little of it is anticipation. Alte exhales slowly, aiming low to avoid Jugend’s face, and studies his expression in the interim. It’s surprisingly placid, the early intrigue he’d seen masked beneath impassive calm. 

Jugend hums, reaching forward and twining his fingers into Alte’s folded collar. 

He lets himself be guided forward, his gaze flicking down to Jugend’s pink lips and back up again. Jugend’s eyes fill his vision, close enough that Alte can pick out the flecks of gold and deeper green in their depths as Jugend strokes a thumb down his pulse. 

He feels unbelievably close, the warmth radiating off him as Alte lifts the cigarette and inhales again, slow and steady. Holds the smoke until his head is buzzing, before he looks down at Jugend’s lips again, and the taller man leans forward to meet him. 

The distance is negligible. 

Their lips don’t touch, but Alte can feel their scorching heat when he exhales. Jugend tilts his head back a moment later, a wisp parting from his mouth as Alte stares. It feels unbelievably intimate, Jugend’s fingers firm on his collar when Alte rolls the cigarette in his digits, so he takes another stalling drag. 

Jugend watches the wisp rise, a contemplative smirk settling on his features. “That didn’t work.” 

“Not enough,” Alte tries lamely, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative in his mouth when Jugend meets his gaze again, “tightness. You gotta-” 

Jugend’s hand jumps up to cup his jaw, yanking him forward as he rises studiously to meet his parted lips. Alte makes a muffled noise that Jugend sucks down, his head swimming with the nicotine as those fingers sure and then push him a mere inch away. Far enough that Jugend can tilt back and exhale a lungful of smoke directly at the ceiling. 

Alte watches the pale grey plume rise with a slack jaw, mesmerised by the bared stretch of Jugend’s throat, the bruising pressure of his fingers around Alte’s chin, the tingle of his lips where they pressed against Jugend’s. 

Jugend meets his gaze, his pupils flat and dark. He’s close enough that Alte can feel the drag of his nose across his cheek when he shifts on the bed. “Not enough,” Jugend echoes softly, and Alte doesn’t waste a second longer to wrap a hand in the bunch of shirt at Jugend’s shoulder blades, jerking him towards him. 

The taller man pitches forward on his knees, his hand climbing into Alte’s hair as their lips meet. His other digs fingers around Alte’s belt, yanking them flush against one another as Alte gasps and reels from the contact. 

Jugend drinks in his breaths, lashes fluttering when Alte pulls back far enough that he can glance down at his cigarette, curse at the flaking ash. He casts around for an ashtray, coming up short when all that greets him is perfectly bare surfaces. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and tries to disengage from Jugend. The man doesn’t relent, the hand in his hair holding him in place as he surveys the shrivelling butt. “Jugend, I gotta-” 

“You can put it out on me,” Jugend offers lightly, tone removed enough to have Alte’s pulse rabbit. 

His brain, luckily, still has some sense about it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he returns skeptically. He has absolutely zero doubt that Kanin will have something to say if Jugend’s covered in burn marks when he arrives. Alte values his life more than the coil of heat in his gut. 

Jugend sucks on his teeth, before pressing forward against Alte so he can swing his heels down to the carpet. “I really wanted to test Gregori’s fire drill,” he pouts, but drags Alte after him with the single hand he’s got hooked around his belt. Alte’s entire torso shivers at the light contact, following him in a trance as the man backtracks towards the porch and slides back the doors. 

He doesn’t understand until Jugend tugs them out onto the stone tiles and slides down to his knees in front of Alte, his other hand joining the first on Alte’s belt. 

Panic spirals up through him sharply. “ _Hang_ on a second-” 

Jugend glances up through his fringe, grinning as he yanks the buckle open with firm efficiency. Alte can’t deny how he twitches at the confidence of the motion. “Put that cigarette out so you can fuck my throat properly.” 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Jugend,” Alte moans, the sound part-horror, but flicks the butt to the tile of the porch, grinding it beneath the toe of his dress shoe. His fingers filter through Jugend’s soft fringe absently, watching as he unbuttons his trousers and licks his lips in a long swipe. “Kanin won’t have something to say about this?” 

Jugend’s grin is lethal. “That’s very telling, that you’re thinking of him when I’m about to go down on you.” 

Helpless, disorganised panic ricochets up through Alte, but he doesn’t have long to fixate on it before it rushes out of him in a shuddering gasp when Jugend wraps a hand around him. 

The cool air is a benediction on Alte’s flushed cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath when Jugend drags a thumb up it’s stiffening length. His spine tightens, rocking him forwards towards those knowing lips as he shivers. Somewhere amidst his blood fizzling in his brain, he manages to grasp some coherency. “I don’t think screwing my boss was in the job description. Not sure how well he’d - _fuck_ \- take the news.” 

That thumb slides over the head as Jugend leans forward to rest it against his lower lip and pauses. Doesn’t take him down yet, and the denial makes Alte shudder. Jugend’s eyes are depthless pools of green when he looks up, entracing and softly amused, and Alte stills beneath their weight. 

“Do me a favour,” he whispers gently. 

Alte’s mouth bypasses his filter, because he quips immediately, “Lots of favours for you today.” 

Jugend smiles, bright and warm, and it shoves all the air from Alte’s lungs with the genuity of it. “I’ll make sure I return this one,” he promises, and dips his tongue into Alte’s slit. 

His hand fumbles for support on the door as he stutters a curse. Jugend watches him with bold intrigue, exhaling gently before he speaks. 

“Do me a favour,” he repeats, and stalls when Alte’s hand tightens in his hair. His head shifts back slightly into the pull of it, chasing the sensation as Alte’s gaze slides down his elongated throat to the dip of his exposed clavicle. 

He hums gratefully, and Jugend shivers beneath the attention, before his eyes peel open. 

“There’s three security men over there,” he continues more breathlessly, jerking his head very slightly toward the opposite end of the porch, far in the distance, to where Alte can see three men milling about on what appears to be a smoke break. “Give them a reason to come running, hmm?” 

Alte doesn’t have a chance to even consider protesting that before Jugend slides down his length, tongue curling around the underside in a manner that punches the breath from him in a thin whine. His fingers tighten into a fist on Jugend’s crown, yanking sharply at the strands, and Jugend gives him a soft moan for it that thrums through the core of him. 

He’s immensely glad he thought to grab onto the doorframe, because he’s seriously appreciating the support now. Jugend’s hand wraps around him firmly, thumb working in tandem with his tongue to drive Alte absolutely mad. 

“Your mouth is- Jesus _fuck,_ Jugend.” 

He hums with pleasure, and Alte can only stare in awe as he sucks him down further, throat relaxing around the intrusion in a way that tells Alte he is most definitely practiced in this, and very, _very_ talented. 

Alte’s had an oral fixation for a long time, but he’s pretty sure anyone would be blindsided by what Jugend’s capable of with his tongue. The sight of his lips, flushed and slick around Alte’s cock, is mesmerising. 

He has the immense pleasure of watching them stretch wide when Jugend sinks deeper onto Alte’s cock, swallowing down the inches with minute flutters of his throat, slow and measured. Alte can’t help but groan at the sight, at the _feel_ of those muscles caressing his length. Jugend’s lashes flutter as his throat constricts in a swallow, tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he squeezes him tight, and Alte stutters out a soft cry. 

Then he begins to move, hard and fast and desperate, the tight circle of his lips gliding up and down his cock. The head makes a dull, wet noise when it strikes the back of his throat, choked around Jugend’s hungry gasps, and Alte falls apart when he wraps fingers into his trousers to yank him deeper. 

He’s needy and eager, setting every single one of Alte’s veins thrumming with the feel of him, the desire to have him deeper. Alte’s barely aware of his cries rising to low, thin shouts as he rocks into Jugend’s mouth, mesmerised by the way he takes him with such ease, with such demand. He’s ratcheting unbearably high, barely able to maintain the thin control he has not to fuck hard and heavy into Jugend’s open throat. 

Alte can’t help but tilt back and bellow, “Mother _fucker._ ” 

“ _Hey!_ ” 

Alte has enough time to pry his eyes open, jaw slack, and bleat a protest as one of the henchmen rounds the corner and lunges for him. He thinks Jugend might laugh, but he’s too tightly wound and teetering on his edge to give it much thought as an arm wraps around his throat and yanks him a step back. 

Jugend makes a slick, obscenely wet noise deep in his throat, his teeth skimming Alte’s cock as he’s leveraged backwards, arms jumping up to stabilise himself against the henchman. It does him in. 

It’s like something out of a fucking dream, the sight of his cum splaying over Jugend’s open, flushed lips. He seems less surprised by the interruption, eyes sliding shut as Alte howls and slumps backwards. 

His vision is a blotted mess of white and black, but it clears remarkably quickly, considering how Alte’s head is spinning like he’s been clipped. The goon is pressed up against his back, one warning hand wrapped up around the top of his throat to tilt his head back against a higher shoulder. 

Even if he could manage to string together a coherent sentence right now, the instant a word thrums up through his vocal chords, the goon clamps down in warning, and Alte chokes. 

“Boys, it’s fine,” Jugend entreats from his kneel, looking suitably wrecked. His hair is a haphazard mess from where Alte’s been tugging on the strands, and he’s flushed a delectable red across his cheekbones that makes Alte whine. 

He lifts a thumb as he settles his weight, the two other goons hovering uncertainly, and swipes it through the mess of cum painting his mouth. He appraises it for a moment before tucking it between his lips, and Alte nearly sobs at the sight. 

“Well, that was all very dramatic,” Jugend chirps, voice rough. Alte does his level best not to imagine the state of his throat. He doubts it’s going to end well for him if he does, and dangling on his tiptoes against a solid wall of muscle isn’t really a great time to test the limits of his refractory period. 

He still manages a wheezing, tight laugh that earns him an even tighter constrictor grip around his larynx. Jugend frowns up at him. 

“Could you- For Pete’s sake. Let him go. Please? Thank you,” Jugend says with a hint of exasperation as the goon releases him, and Alte staggers to reclaim his balance, a hand rising to massage his throat. 

When he manages to catch his breath, Alte glances down to where Jugend hasn’t shifted other than to wave off a goon that tentatively offers him a handkerchief. He’s grinning, broad and exhilarated, as he lifts those hazel eyes to Alte. 

“Alte, get me a towel.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alte says breathlessly, stumbling back into the room as he tucks himself away. He figures the heated blush he can feel burning his cheeks is a lost cause as he ducks the gazes of the goons and heads into the ensuite, zipping his trousers as he goes. 

There’s a stack of fresh, crisp white towels on the vanity, so Alte snags one as his mobile begins to thrum in his pocket. 

“Yes, hello?” he answers as he sandwiches it between his shoulder and ear. He hurries back across the carpet. 

“There was a commotion,” Gregori’s stern, unimpressed voice informs him, and Alte nearly chokes on his embarrassment. 

“It’s fine,” he advises hurriedly, and Jugend meets his gaze curiously as he takes the towel. Alte shifts the phone into his palm and tries to even out his tone. “We had… back up. False alarm. Situation’s been handled. They’ll be along shortly.” 

Gregori gives him a disapproving grunt, but acquiesces, and Alte heaves a sigh of relief when he hangs up. Then he glares down where Jugend is cleaning his face. 

“We’re not doing that again,” he informs him, trying to inject as much authority into his tone as he can muster. 

Jugend just gives him a contemplative hum. “We’ll see.” 

Alte flushes, and glances up at the three goons who are hovering uncomfortably. “You can go. I’ll take it from here.” 

They still glance down at Jugend as he pushes laboriously to his feet, not budging until he waves them off. Jugend watches them meander off with a small, pleased smile, before turning back to cock his head at Alte. He lifts a hand to plant gently against his sternum, and Alte matches his steps backwards as Jugend strides into the room and tugs the porch doors closed behind them. 

“That was fun,” he purrs, and turns to yank the curtains closed over the open windows. It dowses the room in a low, golden light that makes everything seem to glow amber. 

“For you, maybe,” Alte retorts, trying to keep his tone sharp. 

Jugend still grins when he drags his gaze up Alte’s front, lingering longer than is professional on his crotch. Alte tries not to blush beneath the attention, to maintain his scowl in the face of Jugend’s languid appreciation. “You seemed to enjoy yourself.” 

“You’re a prick.” 

Jugend hums, sauntering past him to sprawl out on the bed. “Maybe. But I’m a prick with a clear schedule and a week’s solitary confinement.” 

“Solitary,” Alte repeats with a raised brow. 

Jugend’s lips split in a grin, still red and flushed, and Alte has to swallow when his cock twitches at the sight. “Doesn’t have to be solitary, I suppose, if I have someone to keep me company,” he allows easily, and reaches down to tug his shirt free of his belt. 

Alte exhales through his nose and eyes the ensuite, wondering if he’ll be allowed a shower. When he glances back, Jugend’s unbuckled his belt, and is stretching long and leisurely over the sheets. Alte can see the strip of his stomach where the shirt rides up. 

He fumbles for a distraction. “Will any of your family visit?” 

“Maybe. Not for a few days at least, though. Got this whole compound to ourselves.” 

“And your security team.” 

“Ah, yes,” Jugend considers, watching Alte when he glances nervously back at the curtains pulled closed over the locked porch doors. “Forgot about your exhibitionist kink.” 

Alte scowls, a protest rising on his lips when he spins back to find Jugend with a hand down the front of his pants. His mouth dries at the sight. 

Jugend eyes him with a smile that is too tight to be wholly unaffected by the slow roll of his palm beneath the dark material, his pupils too broad and flat to hide his arousal. “So what are we doing?” he whispers, and has to swallow while Alte snaps his jaw shut. “Are you going to come return the favour, or do I need to show you how many fingers I can take first?” 

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Alte hisses, but it’s thin and unconvincing in his own ears. 

Jugend grins, slow and wide, the hand he doesn’t have wrapped around his cock sliding down the curve of his stomach to hook a thumb in his waistband. To expose a tantalising strip of pale skin to Alte’s wandering eyes. He bucks his hips off the bed just an inch, knees falling open so Alte can see the whole glide of his hand when he speeds up a touch. 

His breath catches a bit, a mirror of Alte’s, when he asks, “Alte?” 

Alte swallows and starts forward on weak legs. “Coming.” 


	29. Entertainment

Satisfying Jugend is quickly turning into a marathon of epic proportions. Alte doesn’t think he could name a single surface in his room that they _haven’t_ christened. Not that he has the energy or will to devote to thinking about it when there’s a gorgeous man sprawled out beneath him, brow pinched and demanding his cock. 

Alte heaves an exerted breath, braced over Jugend, fingers curled into his splayed hair as he rolls his hips slowly, enticingly, between the man’s thighs. Jugend’s on his back, heels massaging a bruise into the small of Alte’s spine as he grips the sheets and moans high and dazed through every gentle thrust. 

They’d worn themselves out somewhere between Jugend dragging Alte down to the carpet and Alte pinning him back against the plaster, driving the air out of Jugend’s lungs. Watching his eyes blaze with every round, mouth ravenous on Alte’s throat and shoulders and chest. Any spare inch of skin he could get his lips and teeth around, and Alte’s pretty sure he’s going to have to weather some chastising glares from Gregori tomorrow. 

But right now Jugend’s nails are carving into his ribs, sliding down the curve of his sweat-slicked back like he can’t find purchase, can’t get a grip as his eyes roll back and he arches. Alte speeds up, angling just right to punch the scream from Jugend’s lungs as he chases his own release. 

It’s a fucking _privilege_ to watch Jugend come apart, trembling and shattering over the crest of his orgasm, lungs empty and still bellowing his pleasure to the heavens. The way he grips tight around Alte, all of him clenching down to hold him as close as possible, brand him into the man’s skin, is enough to take Alte over his edge. 

Alte buries himself between Jugend’s hips, collapsing to his elbows as he wrings every last drop out of him, leaving him boneless and shaky as he pieces his vision back together. Jugend is blistering where he presses against his stomach and chest, and Alte can feel the sticky slick of his spend rubbing between them, the nudge of his softening cock against Alte’s stomach. 

Still reeling, he groans and pulls back, slides down enough that he can get his lips on Jugend, peck a kiss beneath his still-twitching head just to hear the man whine. He ruminates in the bliss of afterglow, dragging a stripe up Jugend’s cock to taste him on his tongue. 

Jugend gives him a barely there protest, hands trembling when they lift to thread through Alte’s hair, and it’s only then that he looks up, mouth open as he pants above the man. 

He’s a sight to behold, pupils blown above bright red cheeks, lips parted as he sucks down soft little breaths. Alte could spend an eternity watching Jugend unravel, floating in the wash of his pleasure, submerged like he is. His eyes are dazed when they meet Alte’s beleaguered stare, and it takes a few minutes to clear their heads before Jugend smiles, slow and ravenous. 

He reaches down, wraps his long fingers around Alte jaw and pulls him inexorably closer, up the line of his sternum. Alte rises like he’s on a string, gaze locked on Jugend’s lips as they lower to meet his, palm smothering the back of Alte’s scalp to hold him in place. His other hand layers over Alte’s collarbone, thumb hitching into the hollow of his throat as he moans. 

When Jugend pulls up for air, it takes a while for him to drag his gaze away from Alte’s swollen lips. “What’s on the agenda for today?” 

“Not your assistant,” Alte slurs, chasing his mouth. Jugend tilts his head away with a chuckle, grinning when Alte whines at the loss. “How should I know?” 

He untangles his fingers from Alte’s hair, taking his chin again to slide two fingers between his lips. Alte groans, brow pinching even as he eagerly closes his mouth around the digits. 

Jugend huffs and slumps back into the pillows with a steadying, affected breath. “I’ve got to get a gag in that pretty mouth of yours,” he murmurs breathlessly, blinking up at the ceiling. Alte moans around the obtrusion, gaze flickering up as he slides his tongue between the two fingers. Jugend withdraws them after a moment, wiping them absently on the sheets as Alte swallows and crawls up the length of his body. 

He presses a kiss to the corner of Jugend’s jaw, earning a glimpse of those bright green eyes. “What _is_ the plan for today?” 

“Probably the last day we’ll get to ourselves before family arrives.” For a moment, Alte thinks he’s going to suggest sex again, and is pleasantly surprised when Jugend smirks and asks, “You want to go bowling?” 

Alte laughs, low and breathless, and buries his forehead in the side of Jugend’s neck. “Don’t tell me your family has an entire fucking bowling alley in this ridiculous mansion of a house.” 

“I’ve got bad news for you,” Jugend returns, and Alte groans around a chuckle, shifting up to his hands and knees. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Alte informs him. “You work out what you want to do today, and I’ll make myself presentable.” 

“Can I join?” Jugend purrs, and Alte’s already preemptively shaking his head. 

“Absolutely not. I want to be _clean._ ” 

“Even if I-” 

“ _No._ ” 

Jugend laughs, warm and easy, and Alte can’t help but grin as he climbs to his feet. He has to pause to drink in the sight of him one last time before he retrieves a towel and ducks down the hallway to his own ensuite, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude that none of the perimeter guards are waiting for him in the corridor. 

Not that he has any doubt they know _exactly_ what they’ve been up to for the past three days after catching Jugend on his knees. But despite appearances, Alte does like to maintain at least an attempt at professionalism with his boss’ security team. If only for Jugend’s reputation. 

Getting caught making a walk of shame down the hallway from his boss’ suite in only a towel is a surefire way of blowing that professionalism out of the water. 

Alte scrubs down with an array of products that smell like they cost several hundred dollars, emerging from the shower smelling of pomegranate and ginger. He takes his time shrugging into a crisp white button up, fiddling with the knot of his tie in the mirror, if only to give Jugend more time to cool down. 

If he can keep his suit intact until at least midday, he’ll consider that a success. 

Alte manages until exactly one fifteen p.m., when Daniya drags them both into an impromptu- but thankfully sober - game of strip truth or dare. They’d discovered her the minute they’d stepped out of their room, and Alte’s just glad that Jugend had the presence of mind to style his hair into an acceptable mess, because if the grin that lights up her features at the sight of them is anything to go off, they haven’t been very surreptitious. 

“Red and blue is a good look on you,” she trills when Alte passes her to fix them some coffee, nodding at the bits of neck that peek above his collar, and cackles when he flushes hot. 

“Where’s Svetya?” Jugend asks, taking a bagel from the plate beside her. 

“Still in the city,” she replies. “Thought I’d come see how you two were keeping busy. Pretty sure she owes me twenty dollars now.” 

Jugend rolls his eyes, but takes his mug with a smile and leads them into the dining room. It’s a large tiled affair, with an obnoxiously large polished granite table that looks like it could seat twelve people. Alte takes the seat opposite Jugend, with Daniya between them at the head, and watches him polish off his bagel with a hum before asking, “So what’s your plan for passing the time?” 

By the way her eyes light, Alte knows he’s going to regret her answer. 

“Strip poker,” she says immediately. 

Jugend shakes his head. “No cards.” 

“Strip truth or dare, then,” Daniya amends with a shrug, and Jugend fixes her with a cool look. “Minus the truth part, because God knows we’re all liars here.” 

“If you were so eager to see me naked, Dany, you only had to ask,” he drawls, and she snorts obnoxiously as Alte looks on in horror. 

“ _Please._ I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work out for either of us. Neither of us have the right innies or outies.” 

“Hmm,” Jugend considers, taking a sip as he sprawls back in his seat. “You’re not wrong. Can confirm that Alte would probably appreciate both though.” 

Alte swivels to give Jugend a half-pleading half-glare, and the man grins over the rim of his mug. 

“Just for that,” Daniya chastises, “he gets to start on you.” 

Jugend shrugs, and Alte turns to fix her with a mortified look. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Dead,” Daniya says with a mouthful of teeth, and Alte realises swiftly that he’s outnumbered. His expression descends into a scowl that makes her laugh. “C’mon, Alte, live a little. No one’s going to bother us, and we’ve got hours to blow. It’ll be _fun._ ” 

“I concur,” Jugend interjects with a heated look that makes Alte’s stomach flip. 

He shifts in his seat, sighing if only for the illusion of reluctance. “Fine,” he concedes. “But he’s getting a dare first.” 

“Jugend can dismantle a gun and put it back together in under three minutes,” Daniya purrs with bristling pride before he can even summon a suggestion. Alte glances at him as Jugend rolls his eyes. 

“Nine,” he corrects. “I can dismantle and rebuild _nine_ models of guns in under three minutes. The rest take me longer.” 

Those are good enough odds for Alte. He digs one of his Berettas out of its holster, checking the safety as he ejects the clip, empties the chamber and lays it on the table between them. Jugend glances down at it, before meeting Alte’s gaze. 

“Three minutes,” Alte prompts with just enough dubiousness to have Jugend taste the challenge in his tone. He gestures to the dormant gun. “Have at it.” 

Jugend shakes his head, stifling a short laugh. “I’m not doing anything without it being worth my while. I don’t do parlour tricks for free, and I certainly don’t do them with no reward. Have you got a genuine challenge for me, or are you going to make me an offer I can’t refuse?” 

“If you can do it, I’ll talk off any item of clothing you want me to,” Alte offers, and Jugend’s jaw very nearly drops. Daniya screeches with delight. “But if you lose, you have to take off whatever I want you to.” 

“You get a field strip,” Jugend says bluntly, and grasps the gun. 

They don’t need a timer, it turns out, because Jugend’s well and truly done in under three minutes. Even pauses a few seconds to lay out the parts across the table to prove he’s not cheating. He lays the gun back on the granite and sits back on his palms with a smug smile. 

“Shirt,” he orders, and Alte shakes his head in vague admiration. He peels the shirt off his shoulders, ignoring Daniya’s chiding wolf-whistle, folds it imperfectly and sets it aside. “But you have to keep the tie.” 

Alte snorts, slipping the black material back around his neck and cinching it with a quick half knot. Then he rolls his shoulders back, crosses his arms over his chest to regain some semblance of modesty, and leans back in his chair. “You’re very happy with yourself, aren’t you?” Alte says to Jugend’s blinding grin. 

“Immensely,” he confirms, and Alte rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Daniya gets a dare next.” 

“Do a cartwheel,” Alte instructs, turning to the woman between them, and Daniya springs to her feet, strolling over to a bare space to lay out a wobbly but distinct cartwheel. She rights herself and approaches the table to reclaim her seat, pointing a finger at Alte. 

“Belt,” she says, and he frowns. 

“Hang on, that’s not-” 

“You said you’d take off any item of clothing,” Daniya points out, cradling her chin in her palms. “You didn’t specify who could tell you to. Lose the belt.” 

Alte scowls, but lowers his hand to the buckle, stripping off the leather and laying it across the table. Jugend’s coy grin is almost worth his wounds. “I get the feeling I’m at a disadvantage here.” 

“Don’t pout, baby,” Jugend purrs. “It’s your turn next.” 

“Daniya chooses,” Alte interjects quickly. 

“Sure,” she drawls, and props her chin up on her palm. “Lick your elbow.” 

“It has to be something I can actually _achieve,_ ” Alte warns her, and she huffs dramatically in response. 

“Fine, can you balance a switchblade on the tip of your finger?” 

“For how long?” Alte asks, sliding the knife from his trouser pocket and flicking it open. 

“Thirty seconds,” Jugend suggests, and Alte shrugs, turning it handle-up and outstretching his hand. He comes close to losing balance a few times, but it’s not nearly as dramatic as Alte’s sure Daniya was hoping for. She’s even pouting when he closes it and puts it down on the table, lifting his finger to his lips to suck off the bead of blood. 

“Shirt,” Alte tells her in response, and turns back to Jugend as she slips it off. “Your turn for a dare.” 

Daniya’s grin is wicked as she reaches out and tugs at Alte’s tie. “I need to borrow this.” 

Alte picks at the knot as she turns the full force of that smirk on Jugend. “You get to play Houdini.” 

“Enthralling,” Jugend drawls, and holds out his wrists. 

Daniya shakes her head, grin growing. “Nope. You get to sit in Alte’s lap, and then I’ll tie your hands behind his back.” 

Jugend pauses, considering as he meets Alte’s eye. “So he gets to distract me, then.” 

“However he sees fit,” Daniya confirms with a grin, and Jugend pouts, but pushes to his feet to step around the table. Alte turns his chair to greet him, chuckling when Jugend climbs into his lap and slides his palms down Alte’s chest. 

He lifts his own hands to the lowest of Jugend’s shirt buttons, undoing them slowly when Daniya crouches behind him to bind Jugend’s wrists with the tie. “Good luck.” 

“You can’t take my shirt off,” Jugend protests with a frown. “That’s outside the rules.” 

“Technically not taking it off,” Alte promises, peeling it down to his biceps as Jugend’s glare heats. It gives him the full canvas of the man’s chest and shoulders to work with, and Alte’s practically salivating at the sight. 

“Asshole,” Jugend mutters lowly, and Alte rewards him with a nip under his jaw. He can feel Daniya working, knotting the final loop with a sharp tug that makes Jugend grunt. He looks a little flushed, pink creeping up his neck as he tests the hold and settles deeper into Alte’s lap. “How long have I got?” 

Daniya puts a hand on Alte’s shoulder and matches his grin. “I don’t know, how long sounds fair to you?” 

“Thirty seconds,” Alte purrs, and Daniya laughs. 

“ _No,_ ” Jugend protests sternly, slightly horrified, and Alte rewards him with a kiss to the side of his throat. He’s certain he doesn’t imagine the man’s shiver. 

“How about we sweeten the deal for you then? Same as last time; if you win, you can take something off me.” 

“What if I want to put items on you?” Jugend asks, and Alte glances up at him. 

“Then you’ve got to win a round for each, same as usual.” 

Jugend licks his lips and stares down at Alte’s mouth. “Fair enough. So if I manage to get out of these ties in thirty seconds flat, I can put them on you?” 

Alte lets his mirth curl into his smile, circles his thumbs into Jugend’s hips to make him shift. “Sure.” 

So Jugend ducks down and seizes his lips, shoving Alte back against the chair with the force. He can feel Jugend’s hands moving, his forearms twisting where they’re pressed flush against Alte’s ribs. Laughing into Jugend’s mouth, he slides his hands down to grip Jugend’s ass, breaking off to mouth wetly down the line of his throat. 

“You asshole,” Jugend grits, but cants his chin back to give him better access. Alte yanks him down against the crotch of his trousers, tipping Jugend off balance until he’s leaned back and Alte can close teeth around his nipple. 

Jugend jolts and yelps, the sound petering into a growl when Alte adds some tongue, teasing the bud as Jugend squirms. 

“You’re an _asshole,_ ” he whines, sounding just a little desperate. He digs an elbow into Alte’s ribs when Alte lifts one hand to pinch the other, grinning up at the man. 

“Five seconds,” Daniya warns, and Jugend curses, jerking his wrist free from the material with a vicious wrench. His fingers jump to Alte’s hair immediately, latching on and shoving his mouth away from the man’s chest as he pants. 

“ _Stay,_ ” he growls, green gaze flashing until Alte grins pliantly. Jugend lifts his other wrist and picks open the knot with his teeth, pulling the tie free with a relieved sigh. “Good God, that mouth is a sin.” 

“You’re welcome,” Alte purrs in response, and Jugend shoots him a dirty look before glancing at Daniya. 

“Now you get to tie _him_ back up,” he instructs pointedly as she takes the material from his palm. “And give him a better knot, would you?” 

“Picky,” Daniya chirps, and Jugend offers her a finger. Alte presses a kiss to the raw skin of his wrist, before bending forward pliantly to let Daniya bind his wrists. 

Jugend wriggles back off his lap, finding his feet and doing his buttons up with swift movements as he watches Alte test the tie. It’s certainly firm, wrapped twice over his wrists and cinched both times; it doesn’t show any signs of ceding when Alte tugs on it. 

“Well,” Alte says. “This sort of throws a wrench in things.” 

“I don’t think so,” Jugend quips lightly, straightening his collar. He leaves the shirt untucked though, and Alte itches to run a knife back up those buttons, imagines the sound they’d make when they hit the floor. Jugend must notice the look, because he hums and orders, “Stand up.” 

“Your turn to dare,” Alte reminds him, holding Jugend’s hungry gaze as he shifts to his feet. The tie doesn’t give any, and Alte takes a step forward when Jugend curls one finger, beckoning. 

He should have known better. He hasn’t even drawn in a full breath before Jugend’s moving, stepping around him as Alte pulls his hands to block and catches in his binds. 

Jugend winds a hand in his hair and presses down until Alte's flush with the cold surface of the table, left temple to the granite, bent in half. He groans, shivering under the onslaught, and cants his wrists in their silk bracelets. 

Jugend notices, his hand snaking down to wrap around the black knot and hold him steady under the two points of contact. He leans down then, and Alte can hear the smile when his lips brush Alte’s ear. “I dare you,” he purrs, dark and low, “to throw me off.” 

Alte pauses, stilling beneath him as Jugend layers some of his weight over the prone man. He flicks a glance over his shoulder at the mafia don, eyelashes fluttering when Jugend’s hand tightens in his hair and his nails scrape over his scalp. “Okay,” he hedges, and licks his lips. “But you’re gonna end up bruised, baby.” 

Jugend’s gaze flashes at the challenge. “Am I now? I’m taller than you, sweetheart.” 

“I’ve fought plenty of guys taller than me,” Alte returns easily. He shifts his weight, pulling his hips back an inch from where they’re jammed against the lip of the table. Giving himself more room to manoeuvre if Jugend decides he really wants to try this. “You’re gonna end up on your ass.” 

“You sound very confident,” Jugend purrs, fist tightening the material until it bites into Alte’s skin. He turns to glance at Daniya where she’s sprawled cross-legged across the arm of the end dining chair. “Who’s your money on?” 

“Alte,” she answers immediately, and Jugend looks hurt. She scoffs at his expression. “You’re good, little brother-in-law, but he’s been in the rings. Even without a knife, my money’s on him. _And_ I want to see him put you on your ass, so.” 

She waves a hand through the air, and Alte takes that as his signal, shoving back into Jugend to drive the air from him in a surprised huff. His fist yanks at Alte’s hair painfully, but he focuses on winding his ankle around Jugend calf and dropping his weight into that leg as he twists down. 

Jugend gives him a yelp of surprise, swivelling to try to offset the momentum, but Alte follows him down, dropping them both into the tile on their asses. 

Daniya’s laughter fills the room as Jugend grumbles and disengages himself from Alte’s limbs, rubbing at his tailbone as he scowls. Alte gives him his best shit-eating grin, and rolls up onto his knees. 

“Not so hard, see? Lose the shirt.” 

“Fine,” Jugend concedes grumpily, and shrugs the material free as Daniya slides to her feet. “Where do you think you’re going? You have a dare to do yet.” 

Daniya arches a brow at him as she backtracks to the hallway, casting him a pointed look. “You sure you want me to hang around for what happens next?” 

“What happens next?” Jugend asks innocently, and leans back on his palms. Alte doesn’t buy it for a second. 

“If you two are going to ‘wrestle’, then I’m going elsewhere,” Daniya returns. “I know you two are raging exhibitionists, but I’m not a voyeur. So you kids have fun without me.” 

Jugend shrugs, turning back to Alte when the door closes. “That’s a blessing if I ever heard one.” 

“So do I get my hands back yet?” Alte asks, twisting them in the ties as he shuffles to face Jugend where he sits. There’s a lazy grin on his lips, his legs sprawled open on the tile. 

“I was under the impression you were enjoying them restrained,” Jugend purrs, and Alte can’t stifle the bolt of heat that twists behind his navel at that knowing stare. “Besides, I thought we’d put your mouth to some use and give mine a break.” 

Alte gives him a crooked smile, but crawls towards him anyway. “You not running that mouth? Didn’t think it was possible.” 

Jugend grabs his hair when he’s within reach, yanking Alte down to his level and prying a groan from his throat. “You’re pushing your luck.” 

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Alte scoffs, and bites back a yelp when Jugend tugs on his hair. It feels delicious, the pain igniting a tingle that ripples down his spine. Jugend’s gaze darkens, pupils pooling to black. 

“Keen, aren’t you?” he mutters, and Alte’s nodding before he can think better. He hasn’t gotten his mouth on Jugend yet - not fully, anyway - and he’s more than eager to wrap his lips around something. Jugend grins and spreads his knees wide, inviting. “Come on then,” he purrs, and Alte twists his wrists in the tie. 

It becomes apparent very quickly that Jugend’s not going to alleviate him of the bonds, so Alte broadens his stance and dips his head down between the man’s legs to work at his trousers. 

Jugend huffs a strained little laugh, fingers resting gently on the back of Alte’s head to guide him as he works the topmost button open. “What was I doing with my mouth on you when yours is this talented?” he purrs, but it’s marred by his sharp, aroused inhale when Alte yanks the zipper free. 

Alte lets the material slip from between his teeth, but doesn’t pull back yet. Flexes his hands where they’re pinned in the small of his back and breathes in the heat wafting off Jugend’s shivering skin, aware that those fingers have tightened their grip on his hair. 

It takes a few moments before Jugend caves, a whining note to his tone when he whispers, “ _Alte._ ” 

So he leans down and mouths at the head through the material, dragging a long groan of relief from Jugend’s throat. He’s aware that he’s half hard himself, sucking hard at the man as he glances up through his lashes. 

Jugend’s eyes are blown wide already, that blush darkening on his neck and cheeks as he watches Alte work, and he barely lasts a minute longer before he jerks Alte’s head back to shove his trousers down and get his cock free. 

Alte lets him guide his head back down over his length, revelling in the drawn-out sigh it earns him as he sets a steady pace. The sight of Jugend trembling above him is intoxicating, and Alte takes him deeper, working further down his length until he’s pressed flush to the man’s shivering stomach. 

“Fuck, Alte, Jesus,” he hisses when Alte swallows, pulling almost the whole way back off him. He reaches down to cup Alte’s jaw, watching as his cock disappears between those lips with a high moan. “God, I want to suck you. You look perfect.” 

He moans his need out around Jugend’s length, and Jugend makes a sound like he’s been punched, tugging at his hair until Alte pulls up. 

“Bedroom,” he insists, dragging Alte to his feet and stumbling for the door, the rest of Alte’s clothes forgotten on the table behind them. He leans down to suck on Alte’s swollen lip, grip fumbling around the door handle until they can stagger into the hallway. “I want to get my mouth on you. I want your mouth on me.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Alte murmurs, twisting his wrists in their confines, and follows him at a hurried pace into their room. The door hasn’t even swung shut before they’re both climbing over and under each other on the bed, mouths lowering eagerly to taste skin. 


	30. Acknowledgement

Alte wakes with Jugend’s mouth teasing down his length, green eyes soft in the mid-morning light where they filter through the long sweep of his lashes. Alte sighs and lists back into the pillows, letting his eyes slip shut as Jugend patiently brings him to full hardness. There’s a laziness to his ministrations, a softness to match the atmosphere of the morning. 

All too soon Alte’s rocking up into Jugend’s mouth, little gasps falling from his lips, so Jugend pulls off and climbs up him. He opens his eyes then, to watch the way Jugend holds his gaze as he reaches back and gives him a quick stroke that makes Alte’s hips cant. 

“Morning, baby,” he purrs around a sharp smile, and Alte’s pulse ricochets when he slides down onto him in one smooth slip of motion. He’s slick and hot, holding Alte just right as he rises to complete wakefulness, shifting to meet him when Jugend seats himself on Alte’s hips. 

He gets a soft, fluttering sigh when Jugend settles, a moment to study the play of light on his naked skin, before Jugend grins slow and rolls his hips. It grazes over the head of Alte’s cock, and the friction is nothing short of heavenly. 

Alte shifts, rolls up even as Jugend’s weight pins him down, forces him to suffer through Jugend’s slow, selfish pace. There’s something inexplicably arousing about Jugend using him for his own pleasure, lost to his own sensations as he picks up speed. It makes Alte groan needily, makes him gasp and clutch for the headboard as he watches Jugend’s hips roll. 

He could honestly stay like this forever, trapped beneath Jugend’s ministrations as the man fucks himself on Alte’s cock. 

On the far side of the bedroom, the door slams open, exposing a bubbly blonde. “Wakey w- _oly shit._ ” 

Alte yelps. Jugend tenses and clenches down on him, and it’s the only proof Alte gets that this wasn’t preplanned, because then Jugend is twisting to fix her with a cool glare. 

“Do you mind?” he says, and Alte blushes all the way up to his ears. Tries to lower his arms, as if he’ll look less incriminating when Jugend is literally _sitting on his dick_ \- 

But Jugend’s hands snap down to wrap around the underside of his biceps, shoving his arms back up and locking them above his head. Alte moans and realises a second too late what that probably sounds like to Daniya, still frozen in the doorway. 

She looks like she’s just been told Christmas and Easter are officially being rolled into one. Her grin is positively _malicious_ , and Jugend arches an infuriatingly cool brow and rolls his hips against Alte’s. 

And fuck if he can’t help but respond to that. “ _Jugend_ ,” he chokes, and tries again to bring his arms down, but Jugend just tightens his grip, dipping down to arch his spine, gaze fixed on the doorway. He looks _obscene_ , and Alte considers that he might just pass out with how much blood is currently concentrated in two lone locals of his body. 

“See you at breakfast then,” Daniya says with broad levity, and shuts the door behind her. 

Not before Jugend calls, “Be out soon,” like he has all the time in the world. Then he turns and smirks down at Alte, like he’s very proud of himself. 

Alte finds it in himself to be offended. “You’re an ass.” 

Jugend doesn't hesitate to layer his palms over Alte’s chest, shifting up slightly just so he can slam down, and Alte shouts his pleasure. “You want to walk that one back, baby?” Jugend asks, picking up a torturously hard and fast rhythm. 

“Fuck,” Alte groans, and shifts his arms - now free - down so he can grip Jugend’s hips with bruising hands. Pulls him up and arches when he slams him back down, just to watch Jugend writhe on him, trapped. “That’s one hell of an ass, baby. Better?” 

Jugend gives him a wry smirk, and curls forward, lifting a hand to wrap over his mouth and jaw as he purrs into his jawline. “You love running - _hah_ \- that mouth, don’t you, baby?” 

Alte moans into his palm, brow pinching as he digs his heels in and leverages up into Jugend. The taller man makes a sharp little sound of pleasure, eyelids slipping closed as he basks in the way Alte’s burying himself up to the hilt. 

“Come on, Alte,” Jugend groans, lashes fluttering as he starts to shake, starts to rattle over the crest of his orgasm. Alte twists, bucks him sideways and down into the mattress so he can bend Jugend’s calves up and drive home as the man bellows his pleasure. His nails carve into Alte’s biceps, gripped white around him as he clenches down and comes. 

It’s only a few more uneven thrusts before Alte’s joining him, folding Jugend back down to the soft sheets so he can collapse on his side and catch his breath. Jugend moves after a long minute of ruminating, turning aside to bite into the skin of Alte’s throat, making his toes curl with the possessiveness of the motion. 

Then he rolls over onto his side and shoves his face into his pillow, shoulders slumping into easy acquiescence as Alte bends to trail kisses over them. 

“What about breakfast?” Alte sighs, easing back against the sheets and sliding a slow hand down his still-trembling stomach. 

Jugend scowls softly into his pillow and mumbles, “They can wait. I’m in charge,” so Alte snickers and lets himself doze. The few minutes of rest will do him good. 

He’s immeasurably glad for the meagre sleep in, because as soon as they step into the chateau proper, his blissful reprieve goes up in smoke. 

Kanin’s standing on the tile, leaning back against the breakfast counter with his arms crossed over his chest, nodding along to whatever it is Daniya is enthusing about. Alte can’t make out the words through the fizzling static that fills his skull at the sight of the teniente. 

Jugend doesn’t seem to share his blind panic, because he just wanders over to snag the nearest piece of toast and prop an elbow up on the counter. Alte follows at a more measured pace, giving the teniente a wide berth as he turns to Jugend. 

“You called me in,” Kanin opens with, expectant, and Jugend, expectedly, takes his sweet time to finish his slice. 

“Have we got work I need to be doing?” he asks after swallowing. Alte firmly _doesn’t_ focus on how still-swollen his lips look, and pours himself a glass of milk. “I thought I saw a non-disclosure agreement that needed my signature.” 

Kanin shakes his head. “Sorted that. Keegans’ shipment hit a roadblock last night, but it’ll only be held up by two days.” Jugend grunts his understanding, and Kanin continues, “Other than that, I cleared your schedule for the next fortnight as per your uncle’s instructions.” 

Jugend’s lips twist at that. He busies himself with digging a box of sugary cereal from the top shelf of a cabinet, bustling about the kitchen in search of a bowl and spoon. “Great, so another two weeks of this bullshit to look forward to. Don’t suppose you’ve got some fun activities planned for us? Alte?” 

Alte’s head jerks up, caught off-guard as he glances up to find Kanin and Jugend staring at him. “Huh?” 

Jugend points to the carton in front of him. “Milk?” 

“Right,” he recovers with, and crosses the room to pass it into Jugend’s hands, ducking Kanin’s gaze the whole while. The brief glance he sneaks at his expression gives him the impression that Kanin’s confused, but Alte can’t for the life of him work out why. 

There’s a concern underscoring that muddled demeanour, and Alte can’t help but feel like Kanin’s trying to get a read off Jugend as he pours the milk over his cereal. 

“Have you not been having fun?” he interjects with a hint of wariness, and Alte’s stomach knots. 

It only worsens to unsalvageable proportions when Jugend turns around and presses a sugary kiss into his lips that Kanin looks a little displeased with. He licks them when Jugend scoops up his bowl, tossing the bowl a scowl. “Been a blast,” the taller man offers sarcastically, “but I’d like some actual work to keep me busy.” 

He cradles his bowl and heads into the adjoining dining room, Kanin on his heels, so Alte follows. There’s another man already seated a few chairs in, with dark blonde hair and familiar hazel eyes, that Jugend sits down next to without hesitation. Alte assumes he’s the fabled other Erdefunfte brother, Kern, Jugend’s second eldest sibling. Kanin doesn’t seem perturbed by his presence either, and Alte settles reluctantly into the seat at Kanin’s left when he takes the one at Jugend’s open side. 

The younger brother sprawls out, disregarding Kern completely as the man idly thumbs through an electronic article between bites of bacon. Jugend chews through a contemplative mouthful before he asks bitterly, “Any chance of us being able to negotiate my internment down to a week?” 

“If they weed out the threat, sure,” Kanin replies with a shrug. 

Jugend stills, and the hairs on Alte’s arms prickle. “ _If?_ They’re not already looking for the bastard?” 

Kanin eyes Jugend’s cereal idly, jaw flexing the smallest amount. Alte only catches it because every nerve is attuned to the teniente. “They are. They could probably increase their resources though, in my opinion.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jugend says with scathing exasperation, and Kern glances up to watch him serenely. “Am I that unimportant to this family that they can’t even be fucked hunting down the guy who _threatens_ my life?” 

“They _are_ hunting him down,” Kern chimes in, unperturbed. He turns a page of his newspaper under Jugend’s burning glare. “They just haven’t found him yet, and _this family_ has other things to do besides investigate every single threat on one of our heads. Christ, we’d be executing half the city if we did that.” 

“My mistake,” Jugend sneers, “I thought this family cared about direct attempts on my life.” 

Kern rolls his eyes. “Stop taking it so personally. They’re looking into it. I don’t know why you’re expecting such special treatment when they closed the book on Bieder after not even a month. And _he_ got blown sky high.” 

Alte makes especially sure not to glance at Jugend in the wake of those words, though he’s aware of the way Jugend slides into a terse, straight sit opposite him. “Should’ve known better,” he mutters lowly, digging petulantly at his cereal. “This family’s got a history of treating me like a second-rate citizen. I should have learnt my lesson when Bieder planted that traitor as my lieutenant.” 

Kanin stiffens, drawing Alte’s distracted attention as Jugend shoves his bowl away. 

Kern sighs. “He didn’t plant Moreno.” 

“He fucking did,” Jugend snarls, slamming a flat palm against the table. It makes Alte flinch. 

“It was his _job_ ,” Kern says dismissively, unfazed by the outburst. “You took it, I’d figured you’d know. Bieder managed the books, he picked the crews. Same as you do now. He gave you one of his best men, Jug, for fuck’s sake.” 

“His _best man_ shouldn’t have taken a fucking bribe.” 

“Jesus fucking- He wasn’t _bribed,_ Jugend,” Kern sighs, rolling his eyes. Jugend’s lip curls at the belittling tone. “He stepped out to take a cigarette break. He’s human. And he fucked up. He _apologised_ for that.” 

“He _stepped_ out,” Jugend repeats, hard and spiteful. “He stepped out, and Kanin stepped out, and my entire perimeter team _happened_ to _step out_ all at the same time?” 

It doesn’t escape Alte’s notice how Kanin flinches at the mention, a wash of guilt flitting across his features, and questions spiral behind Alte’s lips, bruising in their intensity. 

“Kanin followed Moreno’s lead, you know that.” 

“Why did he even leave in the first place? He was my fucking lieutenant. He was supposed to protect me!” 

“For God’s sake, Jugend. It was seven years ago. I’m sorry it happened, he’s sorry it happened, we’re all sorry it happened, okay? But it’s old news. Get over it.” 

Kanin sucks in a sharp breath beside him. Alte grunts when the older man’s foot collides with his shin under the table, a bleat of irritation rising on his lips as Kanin throws an arm across the width of the granite. Then he sees the fist that Kanin wraps in Jugend’s shirt, and his protest dies. 

Jugend throws Kanin the dirtiest glare Alte’s ever seen on the man’s features when he yanks him back into his chair, leaning onto the granite in front of the mafioso to get a better grasp on Jugend’s clothing. 

“Settle down,” Kanin murmurs, low and warning, and Jugend’s lip curls. Kanin’s stare is piercing; Alte can feel it’s edge from here. “Let them do their jobs and find this guy. Focus on _your_ job while their attentions are elsewhere.” 

There’s a bite to his words that Alte can’t place, but that seems to mean something to Jugend, because he settles begrudgingly. He reaches up to gently unwind Kanin’s fingers from his shirt, visibly relaxing with his exhale. 

“Sure,” he answers, and his tone seems much more level than a moment ago. “Assuming you have some work for me?” 

“I’ll find something,” Kanin promises as Kern pushes to his feet with a groan. Kanin’s gaze flicks over him. “How long are you here for?” 

“Out tomorrow afternoon.” 

Kanin hums as he scoops up his plate. “Keep me updated on the chase?” 

“Are you staying longer?” Kern returns, and heads for the door when Kanin nods. “Sure, then. I’ll text you. You just gotta convince Gregori to give you back your phone.” 

Kanin chuckles. “Slim chance.” 

“See you round, Jug,” he calls over his shoulder as he shoulders through the door, and Jugend waves an absent hand in farewell. 

Kanin surveys the pair of them, considering. “So what _do_ you want to do for the next fortnight?” 

“Go home,” Jugend replies, and sighs at Kanin’s chastising look. “ _Fine,_ I’ll quit moping. We’ve already gone bowling and wandered nearly all the grounds, so I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be cooped up in this building. We can only play strip truth or dare so many times before it gets boring.” 

Alte freezes, shooting a sharp glance at the teniente, who is regarding Jugend with an unfathomable look. It’s only the barest moment’s pause before he says, “Who won?” but it feels like a millenia for Alte. His pulse thrums between his ears, heady and thin. 

Jugend polishes off his cereal, completely unaware of the man’s discerning stare. “Is it really a game that you win?” 

Kanin offers Jugend a thin smile, and Alte’s stomach tightens into a constrictor knot. “Can I have a private moment with Alte? We need to have a discussion, one second to another,” he explains, and Jugend hums, pushing to his feet. 

“I’ll leave you two be to talk shop, then,” he says, and Alte wishes he could beg Jugend to stay, keep him as a buffer between him and Kanin, whose gaze hasn’t wavered from Alte since Jugend stood up. But the words stick in his throat like glass, and then the door’s clicking shut behind him, and it’s too late. 

Kanin doesn’t move immediately. He just sits, surveys Alte for a long, pregnant minute. Until Alte feels like his skin could crawl beneath the drag of the man’s gaze. 

Alte forces himself to speak, to pre-empt the inevitable. Beckon in his fate, as if he had any option to avoid it. “What did you want to talk about?” 

That gaze lingers on his face for another unbearable lull, the silence pressing fiercely against Alte’s skull - until it’s broken. 

“Are you fucking him?” Kanin asks softly, quietly, and it makes Alte’s blood run cold. 

His mouth opens, closes. Opens again, and Kanin’s gaze is deep and dark and _searching,_ and Alte doesn’t know what to say. 

“Alte,” Kanin says quietly. 

“I- we haven’t- not like- I _didn’t think,_ ” he tries. 

His ankle slides between Alte’s, hooking around the leg of his chair, trapping him in against the table, unbearably close. He can’t disengage from the chair without leaving his legs and balance at the mercy of the man next to him. And all of his experience screams at him that Kanin is not a merciful man. 

Adrenaline spikes sharply, Alte’s gaze flicking down to Kanin’s hand when it clenches on the tabletop. 

“ _Alte,_ ” Kanin says, stopping his breath short. There’s unbearable sympathy in that tone, laced around hesitant, timid amusement. It sounds so foreign on his lips that it jerks Alte’s eyes up on shock alone. 

He doesn’t think he misreads the mirth in Kanin’s gaze, the calm sprawl of his shoulders beneath his familiar, stiff posture. It’s like he’s seeing Kanin for the first time, the amusement lighting his features up in a way that Alte hasn’t had the pleasure of admiring before. And maybe it’s the latent paranoia or the adrenaline that’s choking off his rational brain, but it doesn’t escape Alte’s notice that Kanin is undeniably attractive when he’s not holding a knife to Alte’s throat. 

He’s never had cause to think as much before, but there’s a softness to his features, something oddly inviting in the sweep of his cheekbones and the delighted curl of his lips. It stalls Alte out a bit, draws his focus back up to those honeyed brown eyes. 

“You’re overreacting,” Kanin says softly, gaze flickering over his face, unable or unwilling to settle. “Stop overthinking shit, and let me try something?” 

He can’t think to do anything but nod at that treaty, offering himself up to Kanin’s mercy. 

There’s a hand on his jaw in the next minute, and Alte sucks in a sharp breath, stilling as every instinct abandons him. Kanin hesitates, the barest inch away, his dark eyes fixed on Alte’s slack lips. He feels when the man exhales, feels it spiral over his overheated skin. Kanin’s touch is featherlight, the tips of his fingers dragging against the barest stubble of Alte’s jaw. 

He’s not sure that Kanin moves first. It’s hard to tell, but he hears the soft whine that precedes their lips meeting, sees the tight pinch of Kanin’s brow when the force of Alte’s teeth colliding with his makes him reel back slightly. And then the breathless exhale, the unspooling of Kanin’s frown like a thread unravelling. 

His lips open like a benediction, his fingers hooking over the scar in the corner of Alte’s jaw to pull him close, to meet him. His other hand curls in the front of Alte’s shirt, skimming for purchase before it latches around his tie and yanks him closer, the man swelling up to meet him. 

Kanin is hot against him, all soft edges and tentative touches, and it makes Alte’s head spin, that he could be so _gentle_ with him. There’s still a surety to his grip, an in-built mentorship to the way he guides Alte’s mouth open to let him in, to ease himself closer. 

Alte’s not entirely sure _when_ Kanin became so interested in the taste of his lips and tongue, but he can’t summon the concentration to care when his hand is climbing religiously into the curls of Alte’s hair, burrowing deeper. 

He’s the first to break away, with a gentle but steady hand layered over Kanin’s collarbones. The man withdraws when he pulls up, suddenly as hesitant and self-conscious as he had been before he’d set Alte’s veins ablaze. So he closes his grip on the man’s collar and jerks him to a hard halt, still hovering near enough that Alte can feel the heave of his shoulders and the wash of his breath. 

“Alte?” Kanin asks softly, those eyes flickering over his face. As if searching for an answer. 

So Alte reaches out and wraps his palm over the back of the man’s neck, pulling him back in to meet his lips. It’s wet, and hot, and they’re swallowing each other’s breaths more than they’re drawing their own. And Alte’s head is spinning, but not enough to curb the questions that take root in his brain. 

“I thought,” he starts, pulling back, and is interrupted by Kanin shoving upwards to meet him again. He loses himself for a minute, before his grip sures in the man’s hair and holds him in place so Alte can litter nips across his lower lip, punctuating between each word, “you and Jugend… Are you…?” 

“With you,” Kanin answers in a low groan. His fist is a vice at the base of Alte’s throat, still wrapped around his tie. “If you want?” 

“Fuck,” Alte curses, and has to pause to let Kanin lick into his mouth. There’s just such _purpose_ to the way he kisses, such understated possessiveness, as if he’s branding himself with every brush of Alte’s lips, declaring himself claimed. “Kanin, fuck, _Kanin-_ ” 

The man moans but pulls back. His gaze stays trained on Alte’s lips though, and they feel swollen in the cool air. “Ask me,” he demands, hand flexing on Alte’s tie. 

“How long have you…?” 

Kanin’s gaze snaps up, impossibly dark, and Alte’s breath catches. “Jugend? Or you?” 

Alte’s tries to temper the curl of heat at the words, to focus on the slow swipe of Kanin’s tongue over his own swollen lips. Takes a moment to marvel at how _red_ they are. “Jugend,” he answers, because he can’t bear to meet Kanin’s gaze when they’re like this. 

“A while,” Kanin admits, “Years. Not that long,” he adds, before Alte can start extrapolating. “But before you.” 

“And me?” 

Kanin’s words are strained through his inhale. “Long enough.” 

“You didn’t _say,_ ” Alte accuses, and Kanin groans as he bites into Alte’s lip, the slice of pain an anchor for his reeling brain. When the older man shifts back, Alte snares his gaze and repeats, “You didn’t tell me.” 

That mirth is back, melting Kanin’s brown eyes to honey. “I don’t say much, Alte. On anything. But I’ve got plenty to show you if you’re interested.” 

Alte makes a choked little noise and licks into his mouth. “I thought you were going to _kill_ me.” 

Kanin pulls back, brow pinched in something akin to horror. “What the fuck gave you that impression?” 

Alte swallows. “I don’t know, the last time I got cocky about Jugend, you dislocated my shoulder. And you beat the shit out of that guy at the bar.” 

“He was getting handsy,” Kanin growls, and then rolls his lips between his teeth before he confesses, “and I wanted to impress Jugend. I wanted to impress you. I was drunk. But I can see where you might have misconstrued the shoulder.” 

“You _think?_ ” 

Kanin’s hand slides into his hair, pulling Alte down to meet him when he lurches forward. “Okay,” he says between kisses. “Okay, fair enough, that one’s on me. But hiring you? The insurance money? Bringing you in on, on all _this?_ I thought that night at the bar, when we talked, I thought you _got_ it.” 

Alte gives him a breathless bark of laughter that Kanin swallows down with teeth and tongue, trailing them over his jawline when Alte squeezes his eyes shut to breathe. “How in the _fuck_ was I supposed to interpret that as you being interested in me?” 

“I don’t tell just anyone about my life, Alte,” Kanin murmurs against his pulse. “And I don’t let just anyone near Jugend either.” He pauses, pulling back with a frown. “Wait a minute. If you thought that he and I were dating-” 

“I wasn’t sure,” Alte interjects, but Kanin steamrolls him. 

“You and him have spent the last week fucking like rabbits, Sklavesman,” Kanin points out with a disbelieving scowl. “You’d fuck a guy you thought was involved behind your boss’ back?” 

“ _Usually,_ ” Alte defends with a frown, “I’m not getting literally screwed by my _other_ boss. And technically, _he_ was the only one who was cheating, because _I_ didn’t know. And besides, it’s _Jugend._ How the fuck was I supposed to say no to him and live?” 

Kanin tilts his head contemplatively, stroking little circles into the base of Alte’s skull. “Fair point. I don’t know if I’d do better in the reverse. And to be honest, I’d be more pissed if my plan _hadn’t_ worked. Should’ve known I could trust the two of you to be horny bastards when you’re stir crazy.” 

“ _You_ set us up?” 

“I had to convince Jugend to get onboard somehow,” Kanin snorts, and grins at him. It takes Alte’s breath away. “You didn’t disappoint on that front, kid.” 

Alte sits back and thinks for a moment, digesting that as Kanin drags an idle thumb over his lip. “Am I ever going to catch up to you two?” 

Kanin hums, amused. “Don’t count on it, kid.” 

“Kid,” Alte repeats, scrunching his nose. “You’re still gonna call me that if I- if we-” 

“Don’t overthink it,” Kanin reminds him calmly, and twists his fingers into Alte’s hair. He has to fight back a groan, but he thinks Kanin notices anyway. “And before you make some shitty old man comment, I’m not that much older than you. And I’m still your boss.” 

Alte feels his lips curl in a grin that makes Kanin huff in amusement. “Noted.” 

“And speaking of bosses,” Kanin says with a wry smirk, “we should check up on ours.” 

He releases Alte’s hair, and for a moment he rues the lack of pressure as the teniente pushes to his feet. He misses it less when Kanin tugs him down to press one more kiss between his lips, studying his expression with a low, satisfied hum when they break apart to cross to the door. 

Their mafia don is sprawled out on the lounge when they enter the living room, long legs crossed at the ankle as he flicks idly through a magazine. He doesn’t look like he’s been reading it, because his antsy demeanour slips away immediately at their presence, smoothing to his characteristic ease. 

Jugend’s head lifts, his gaze rising to meet them, a question in his eyes that flattens to warm mirth. “Have fun, did you?” 

“Shut up,” Kanin answers before Alte can get a hold on the blush that lights him up. 

Jugend hums and shifts as Kanin approaches, curls his legs back to accommodate the man’s sprawl when he seats himself at the far end of the loveseat. Kanin links his fingers and fixes Alte with a steady gaze that leaves him feeling alone in the empty cold of the room. 

“Go ahead,” Kanin says, “ask him.” 

For a moment, Alte thinks the permission is for Jugend. Then the man turns those assessing, curious green eyes on him, and the air eases out of Alte’s lungs. 

“Alte?” Jugend prompts when the silence lingers, and Alte could really get used to his name on their tongues. 

“You’re in a relationship,” he blurts, because honesty seems like the best policy. 

“Yes,” Jugend answers easily, and then adds, a little smugly, “Not new, by the way.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Alte mutters, and it surprises him when Kanin’s the one to scoff. 

“We were more subtle than we gave him credit for,” Jugend soothes with the curl of a smile. They’re still not… touching. There’s nothing outward to their postures or demeanour to suggest anything other than professional closeness, and it doesn’t sit right with Alte. Like there’s a distance that needs bridging. Like they _need_ a bridge. 

“So where do I fit in?” 

“The middle,” Jugend replies simply, as if the answer is obvious. His tone is uncharacteristically void of condescension, and Alte is belatedly grateful. “If you want to.” 

His gaze flickers to Kanin. “And you’re okay with that?” 

Kanin barks a laugh, shoulders lifting once. “Kid, I suggested it.” 

He doesn’t stand a hope of quelling the way his brows lift at the confession. 

“I took some convincing,” Jugend teases, but Alte can tell it’s not wholly genuine. 

“So you both want this?” he asks tentatively, gesturing aimlessly. “It’s not… I don’t know, short term? A fling?” 

Jugend’s brow pinches in confusion. “Why would you ever think you’d be a fling, Alte?” 

He swallows, lets his hand fall back to his side. “Okay,” he says, for lack of something better to fill the silence. “Okay.” 

Jugend glances at Kanin, analysing him for a moment before he turns back to Alte and smiles, slow and sure. “Your lips look gorgeous,” he admits coyly, and straightens in his seat. “Can I kiss them?” 

“Jealous,” Kanin mutters under his breath, far too loud for either of them to miss it. 

Jugend shoots him a short-lived glare. “I’m not allowed to be possessive? You had him for nearly twenty minutes in there.” 

Alte snorts, the sound bubbling into laughter that tugs Jugend’s lips up into the beginnings of a grin. “You’ve had me for four days,” he reminds Jugend, glancing aside to gauge Kanin’s reaction. It’s placid, as if he’s already aware of Jugend’s insatiable appetite. Not a single hint of resentment, and the steady trust eases the last of the guilt off Alte’s shoulders. 

“I’ve got you for fourteen more,” Jugend replies in a low tone that tugs behind Alte’s navel. 

He swallows that rush of excitement down and makes a point to turn to Kanin. “Are you staying?” 

Kanin’s expression is the most delighted Alte’s seen it in memory. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, kid.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this is where I announce my hiatus. Writing commitments have hit me hard this season, but I'm hoping to return to Retributory Shroud sometime in November 2020, so that I can give you an update by December. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading along so far, and thank you for all your amazing comments. I hope to see you back after the break!


	31. Entanglement

“How do you like it, kid? Giving or receiving?” 

Alte glances at Jugend, who meets his stare with a quirk of his lips.

They’re in Jugend’s room, at Kanin’s insistence. Something about granting Alte the benefit of an unspoiled bed of his own to return to. Though there had been some insinuation that he would have to share. Alte had tried and failed to smother his smile at the thought that he’d need to get used to sharing from this point onward. 

Kanin follows his look and scoffs. “Yeah, Jugend doesn’t negotiate,” he explains, and shucks his tie. “But I can be persuaded.”

Several things rapidly rearrange themselves in Alte’s head. 

“Giving,” he says, as confidently as he can manage. Kanin shoots Jugend a questioning look that Alte can’t decipher, and Jugend hums a contemplative note before he tilts his chin up and settles back on his elbows. 

“How much do you like to play, Alte?” Kanin asks, and Alte wouldn’t call it tentative, but there’s a definite caution to his tone. 

“Play?” he repeats. 

“Kanin and I usually involve more of a… psychological element when we fuck,” Jugend hedges, green eyes muted as they drag down Alte’s sternum. They lift to meet his gaze, sincere. “We don’t have to try any of that on your first time, though.” 

The wording makes Alte flush, makes his brow knit as his hands hover at his belt. But his curiosity outweighs his embarrassment. “What sort of play?” 

Jugend stretches his long, languid neck and reaches out to snap his fingers in front of Kanin’s navel. The sound rings like a shot through the room, sizzling through Alte’s already molten core. 

The teniente folds to his knees without a second’s hesitation, head bowing just slightly so Jugend can thread his fingers into Kanin’s hair. It draws heat down into Alte’s belly, seeing all that caged restraint layered over Kanin’s shoulders, all that singular focus beneath the tight grip of Jugend’s hand. 

When Jugend snaps his head back, opening up that long expanse of a throat, Alte groans. 

Kanin’s eyes flutter open, dark and unreadable where they slide to keep him in sight, drinking Alte down where he stands. It doesn’t escape Alte’s keen notice when Kanin shudders hard. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Jugend breathes, the sound velvet and warm as he trails his fingers through Kanin’s hair. Those eyes shift to hold his, a blush warming over Kanin’s cheekbones. “How about you take off those clothes, hmm? Give Alte something to look at.” 

Kanin nods, tight and compliant. His hands lift to the buttons of his dress shirt, dethreading them with impatient eagerness. Jugend’s hand fists in his hair again, drawing his attention at the unspoken reprimand. 

“Go slow.” 

Alte’s hand twitches towards his own trousers at the authority in that low tone. It yanks behind his knees, and from the way Kanin’s movements immediately slow to a languid pace, he’s not the only one cowed by the command Jugend wields. 

The crisp white material slides off his shoulders when they roll back, baring warm skin that Alte aches to get his lips on. It pools at his elbows, and Kanin pivots to drape it over the nearby chair. The shift exposes his back to Alte’s eyes, for what must be the first time, because the sight stops the breath behind Alte’s teeth. 

There’s a mess of faded lines striped up Kanin’s spine, and some more familiar scars that Alte recognises as old knife wounds littered over his limbs. There’s a history carved into Kanin’s skin, and Alte can’t help it when his eyes slide over every inch like he can map the man out. He’s not fast enough to feign politeness when Kanin turns back around. 

Kanin pauses, throat bobbing uncertainly at whatever he sees in Alte’s wandering gaze. There’s a moment of hesitation, of doubt, when Kanin entreats, “Everything okay, kid?” 

Alte forces himself to shrug, because it doesn’t change anything. “Got my own,” Alte admits easily, and some of that tension eases out of the man. 

It gives him enough confidence to shuck everything below the waist, and then Kanin is standing bare before him, offering himself. 

Alte doesn’t have a chance to move before Jugend quips, “Lose the shirt.” 

He moves on autopilot, eyes locked with Kanin as he shoves the shirt over his head, wrestling his arms free with impatience. Kanin’s gaze drinks him down when he’s bare, slow and appreciative, and Alte blushes like _he’s_ the naked one. 

“Kanin,” Jugend prompts, and the man turns on a dime, bending to let himself be pulled into the kiss that Jugend lifts to his lips. There’s something intimately possessive in the curl of Jugend’s fingers in the teniente’s hair, the way he manoeuvres Kanin as it pleases him. The way that Kanin _lets_ himself be manoeuvred, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be but at Jugend’s side. 

When they break apart, there’s a heat radiating in the air between them, a fuse begging for a lighter. The curl of Jugend’s grin is excitedly wicked when he reaches into the drawer beside Kanin’s hip, planting a chaste kiss to the skin there that has Kanin’s breath hitching. When he withdraws back onto the bed, it’s to toss a small bottle of lube onto the covers, his other hand reaching out to reclaim Kanin. 

Jugend shifts on the sheets, pulling back to give the man more room as he tugs him up. Kanin goes easily, bending at the waist when Jugend shoves his head down into the soft white covers. He exhales then, a long, shuddering motion, and Alte watches the muscles down his back play in the low light. 

Can’t stare for long before his eyes are being drawn up to those piercing hazel orbs. 

Jugend’s smirking, soft and indulgent. “Enjoying yourself, Alte?” 

“Yes,” he murmurs, compelled. Then swallows at Jugend’s crooked brow, and adds, “Sir.” 

Jugend’s palm shifts from its place atop Kanin’s crown, nails carving lightly down the back of his scalp until Jugend can wrap fingers over the man’s neck. Kanin shifts infinitesimally, knees wavering beneath that squeeze as he frets atop the sheets. Holds desperately still when Jugend leans down to caress the shell of his ear with his lips. 

“Hear how eager he is, pet?” Jugend murmurs, and Kanin bites off a whine. “Can’t wait to get in you.” And then, louder, for Alte’s benefit, “How about you work him open on your fingers, Alte?” 

He’s nodding before his brain even processes the command, reaching for the lube tossed carelessly across the bed. Kanin’s eyes shift to him when he does, drawn to the movement, and Alte takes a second to read the man, to ensure that he’s honestly on board with the idea. 

The heat that greets him in that dark gaze is depthless, soaked in wavering need as Kanin melts into the sheets and presents himself further. 

“Nice and slow, Alte,” Jugend reminds him, as Alte applies a liberal serving to his first fingers. “Take your time. I love watching this.” 

Kanin groans, teeth appearing to worry at his lower lip as he turns his head to meet Jugend’s gaze. Just to watch, it seems, to drink down the pleasure simmering on Jugend’s features. Alte makes sure his fingers are practically dripping before he shifts to stand behind the man, nearly close enough to brush the backs of his thighs with his trousers. 

He sees the tension, the anticipation, knot Kanin’s spine. Sees his focus drawn down to the point where Alte’s fingertips press to hot flesh, his other hand wrapping over the globe of Kanin’s ass to pull the cheek aside, expose that fluttering, eager hole. 

The sound it pulls from Kanin’s chest is low and needy, and it hitches into a soft sigh when Alte drags his dry thumb and then his wet fingers over the pucker. His knees waver a moment, and then Kanin widens his stance a half-foot, temple never leaving the sheets he’s pressed against. 

Alte keeps his gaze on the ripple of the man’s spine when he slips the first finger in. There’s only the barest resistance, eased when Kanin releases the breath he’s been holding, and Alte slides in to the second knuckle with next to no drag. 

He takes his time, savouring every shift of muscle as Kanin trembles around his finger, hips rocking the barest inch to entice him further. Alte slows his progress with a hand on the man’s hip, revelling the warmth that burns back into his palm. Kanin’s skin is a pulsing heat, all of him wound tight as Alte fucks him slow on one digit. 

“Alte,” Kanin groans after a moment, low and entreating. Alte’s never heard him speak so softly, so imploringly. “Please give me another.” 

Jugend’s hand lifts to soothe through his hair, fingers winding around locks. Alte waits until Jugend gives him a small nod of approval before he slides in the second alongside the first, coaxing a disjointed groan from Kanin’s chest. The smaller man rocks up the bed, cock grinding on the sheets as he pants. 

There’s something inherently arousing about how affected Kanin is, how overwhelmed he is just by their presence. Alte scissors his fingers just to enjoy how Kanin melts into the sheets. 

“Give him another, Alte,” Jugend instructs, readjusting the tilt of Kanin’s head where he has it pinned down by the locks. At the new angle, Alte can see the bob of Kanin’s throat when he adds another finger, the stretch harsh enough to have Kanin groan loudly. 

Alte stops immediately, third still crooked just inside Kanin’s rim, gaze flicking up to assess Kanin’s expression. Those dark, blown eyes slot open after a moment, brow creasing as he tries to locate the source of Alte’s hesitation. 

Jugend gives him a bark of laughter, a hand lowering to tweak Kanin’s nipple as he says, “He’s so enamoured with you, pet. Alte wants to know your colour.” 

Understanding settles on Kanin’s features, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Green,” he croaks, and then repeats, with more conviction, “Green, Alte, please.” 

Alte moves again, breath stilling when Kanin’s lashes flutter at the slide. Another groan falls from his lips, this one deeper and sweeping across the coals in Alte’s gut. 

He summons enough sensibility to ask, “Do you two use a safeword?” 

Kanin tenses around his fingers, but Alte massages him through the resistance, eyes on the way the man’s muscles uncoil beneath the map of his skin. 

“We don’t usually,” Jugend admits, green eyes hooded and dark. His free hand has fallen to palm himself lazily, drawing Kanin’s attention. “But Kanin should have some relics he can use, right, pet?” 

“Tennessee,” Kanin answers, swallowing hard when Alte eases in to the last knuckle. His back bows, spine curving beneath the ministrations as he tries to collect his thoughts. “My safeword- I’ve used ‘Tennessee’ before.” 

Alte’s certain there’s a story behind that, but now doesn’t seem like the polite time to ask someone. Not when Alte’s three fingers deep in their ass. 

As if clueing to the air of hesitation in the room, Jugend swings up into a sit, leaning over to inspect Alte’s handiwork. Kanin shudders at the dual attention, Alte’s own cheeks heating when Jugend lays a hand on one globe of Kanin’s ass to open him further. 

Then he smiles. “I think he’s ready for you, Alte. He always did like it rough, isn’t that right, pet?” 

“Did?” Alte prompts, even as he lowers his free hand to his belt buckle, yanking it free with a hint of desperation. His cock is already aching, hard and at attention at the sight of Kanin sprawled on the sheets before him. 

Jugend hums and lounges back with a satisfied look, tugging his own zipper down to free his cock. “Let’s say I’m not in the business of giving. He won’t admit it, but Kanin’s missed bottoming for someone.” 

The man frowns, lips twisting in disagreement. “That’s not true. I enjoy fucking you.” 

Long fingers lace around Kanin’s jaw, tilting him up to meet Jugend’s lips when he kisses him roughly, the action simultaneously possessive and gracious. When he pulls back, both their lips are swollen red, and it makes Alte’s cock twitch. 

“And I’m very grateful, love,” Jugend agrees, green eyes magmatic. Then those long fingers slide down the underside of Kanin’s torso to wrap around his cock, tugging once to make the man rise to his toes with a whimpered plea. “But don’t think I don’t notice how much you wish you were in my position.” 

When he leans down to press his lips to the shell of Kanin’s ear, punctuating the words with a squeeze around the head of the man’s member, Alte strains to hear him. “Or how hard you are at the thought of Alte fucking you into my mattress.” 

Kanin spits out an indecipherable curse, head dipping below his shoulders as his back arches. Alte watches his hands curl into fists on the sheets, how his thighs tremble in the stance he holds. 

The burn of Jugend’s eyes tugs the heat down to pool in Alte’s stomach when he says, “You can fuck him now, Alte.” 

The ‘yes, sir’ seems arbitrary at this point, so Alte withdraws his fingers with haste, slicking his length thoroughly but efficiently. As keen as he is to be inside that tight heat already, and as much as Jugend seems eager to assure him that Kanin likes it rough, Alte doesn’t want to cause the man any unnecessary discomfort. He rarely cares for his own pleasure above his partners’, and the teniente shivering beneath the press of Alte’s fingers is no different. 

The first press in steals the air from Alte’s lungs, stars popping behind his vision at the tight clutch of Kanin around him. He’s almost embarrassed by how good it feels, how bare his own reaction is. But when Alte opens his eyes, Jugend is watching him with a hungry wonder, and it drums enough resolve to have Alte’s grip firming on Kanin’s hips when he pulls him back down the length of his cock. 

The breath stutters out of Kanin’s lungs with the slide, slipping up into a soft, high keen. Jugend rolls forward onto his elbows, smirking as he leans down to brush the teniente’s ear with his lips as that head dips. 

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Jugend purrs, and Alte can’t see it, but from the way the muscles in Kanin’s exposed neck tense and then unwind, he’s in agreement. Jugend’s fingers climb up to press the pulse on either side of Kanin’s throat, and it shoves a grunt from Alte’s own when Kanin clenches around him. 

Jugend’s eyes flicker up to him, green and warm as he smiles. 

“He’s a real treat,” the man says, fingers constricting gently around Kanin’s windpipe. It makes Kanin’s jaw fall open, makes his eyes flutter shut and his whole body lean into the sensation, drawing Alte along with him. “You’ve gotta treat him right, Alte. Fuck the daylights out of him.” 

Kanin hisses and moans at that, caught between scathing disapproval and wholehearted accord. It stutters into a soft sigh in his throat when Jugend squeezes down hard, and Kanin stills. 

“Jesus,” Alte whispers when Kanin’s whole body draws tight around him, one hand lifting to splay over the man’s back. He’s not sure which one of them he’s steadying with the touch. 

Jugend releases his throat, and the breath Kanin draws in makes Alte’s lungs flutter in sympathy. Makes him swallow around the thought of those fingers on his own skin, pressing back his pulse. 

“Come on, Alte,” Jugend moans, and Alte draws out almost to the head, mesmerised by the heat in that gaze. “Don’t you want to hear him beg?” 

“Jugend,” Kanin whispers, the sound muffled by the sheets and by the shout of pleasure when Alte snaps his hips back in. Kanin grinds back to meet him, so Alte does it again. 

“He’s got such a lovely voice,” Jugend purrs, more for Kanin’s benefit than Alte’s own, he suspects. He seems to enjoy the blush slowly spreading to the tips of the man’s ears, licking over it with teeth and tongue as he speaks. “You should get him to sing for you, Alte.” 

Kanin opens his mouth to protest that, so Alte winds both hands around his waist and jerks him back onto his cock, toes scraping the carpet. From the way Kanin’s head tosses and his knees buckle, it’s exactly what he’s been waiting for. He can feel the give of muscles beneath his thumbs, the way Kanin arches to draw him deeper, the scrape of scar tissue beneath his callouses. 

“I think he’s right,” Alte breathes, and finds his voice when Kanin shivers beneath him. He punctuates it with another thrust that has a light sparking in Jugend’s green eyes. “I think you’d sound great screaming my name, Kanin.” 

Kanin’s jaw falls open, brow knitting as he shoves out soft little “ah, ah, ah’s” to mark every rock of Alte’s hips into him. When they slit open, his dark brown eyes are like molten honey. 

“Fuck him harder than that, Alte,” Jugend breathes, awestruck, and Alte acquiesces. 

Kanin’s moans rise to bitten down shouts, fingers crooking to curl into the sheets, seeking an anchor as he’s rocked up the mattress. Jugend’s spare hand returns to his own pants, hips flexing up into his grip as he watches the pair of them, watches Alte’s hands roam over Kanin’s flesh. Alte tucks his hand beneath Kanin’s hip to trail fingertips over the man’s stomach, tracing the wetness that lines his skin until he brushes the man’s cock. 

A grin flickers onto Alte’s lips when Kanin whines and shudders beneath him, drawing tight around the heat of his cock when Alte takes a firm grip. Matches every stroke to the tempo of his hips as he pistons into the teniente. 

“Fuck, fuck, _Alte,_ ” Kanin breathes, burrowing his face into the sheets to muffle his incoherent cries. 

Jugend leans down to tug at the shell of Kanin’s ear again, dismissive of the way the man shudders into the sheets. “You wanna eat me out, pet? Fuck me open on your tongue while you take Alte’s cock?” 

Kanin shifts on the sheets, but it takes Alte a blinded moment to realise the man is nodding fervently. 

“Use your pretty words, pet.” 

“Please,” Kanin whispers, tone grating and low, lifting his head to find Jugend’s lips. He doesn’t meet them though, not yet. The look in his dark, blown pupils is dazed and delicious. “Please, Jugend.” 

“Turn over.” 

The low tone of that command snaps Alte’s spine straight, makes all of him tense beneath its demand. Against his better judgement, his hips snap forward, punching a sharp moan from Kanin that delays their movements by another moment while they both collect themselves. 

“You two are gorgeous to watch,” Jugend announces, kicking off his clothing with practiced efficiency. He looks just as beautiful bare as the first time Alte had seen him, limbs lean and long as they crawl up the mattress. He looks, above anything else, totally in his element here, and there’s something about Jugend’s confidence that draws lines of heat through the smouldering pool in the core of Alte. 

Kanin starts to shift, pulling free from him to crawl further up the sheets, Alte’s cock slipping from between his legs. The cool air is both a benediction and a curse after the tight heat of Kanin, and Alte squeezes the base in consolation while he waits for Kanin to turn over. 

When he does, it knocks Alte breathless. 

There’s a blush crawling over Kanin’s collarbones, darkening the flush of his bitten lips and dusting over his cheeks. He looks undone, eyes a depthless void of black above the rise and fall of his chest. Alte wants to bite that skin, taste some of that desperation on his own tongue. 

His hands are climbing before he even realises he’s moved, fingers spreading over the smaller man’s ribs, thumbs swiping over his chest to admire the way Kanin arches into the touch. 

It’s like a cord snapping, and then Alte’s lips are crashing onto Kanin’s, licking over toothmarks to entwine with that hot tongue. Kanin opens to meet his ferocity, one hand fumbling to the back of Alte’s head like he’s seeking purchase, seeking an anchor. When he tugs at Alte’s locks, he moans deep into the teniente’s mouth, breaking free to kiss down the ridges of Kanin’s windpipe with fevered dedication. 

Alte’s vaguely aware of Jugend’s fingers wrapping over Kanin’s chin to tilt him up, bending down to steal his breath over again. The thought of Jugend claiming the taste of Alte in Kanin’s mouth has his blood heating, and he bites lightly around Kanin’s collarbones, spurred by the pull in his hair. 

It’s too easy to hold him down on the sheets, undiscouraged when Kanin’s attention is torn between the pair of them. His skin is a canvas, and Alte marks out his claim on the man’s scars, sucking a bruise into every spare inch until Kanin is squirming beneath his touch. 

“Fuck,” Kanin’s gasping around Jugend’s teeth. “Fuck, Jugend, Alte, _please._ ” 

Alte smirks, tongue dipping into the man’s navel to have him ricocheting up the sheets with a moan. He stifles the motion with the grip he has on Kanin’s hipbones, kissing the trail of short dark hairs that lace down to the base of his cock. 

Then those fingers are tightening in his hair, drawing Alte’s head up, and Kanin is pinned back beneath Jugend’s palm, swallowing hard beneath the clasp of that hand. There’s something pinched around his closed eyes, jaw tight around words he’s unwilling to say, so Alte’s gaze flicks up to Jugend’s when the mafia don shakes his head silently, softly. 

The remorse is immediate, but fleeting as Jugend salvages the moment by murmuring, “Pet, tell Alte what you want him to do with you.” 

Kanin draws in a shaky breath, eyes slipping open to stare unfocused at the ceiling. His words are a tremulous, indulgent plea when he says, “Fuck me, Alte, please.” 

So Alte lifts his lips from Kanin's hipbones to climb back up to his mouth, grinning when Jugend deftly turns the teniente's head to meet him. He takes his time, licking softly into the man's mouth and slowly pressing deeper until Kanin is grinding against Alte's stomach in search of friction, knees crawling up to bracket his hips. Alte tastes every one of his moans, until his head is swimming with them. 

Then he lowers a hand to guide his cock back into Kanin, revelling in the way the whole of him draws taunt around the slide before, beautifully, unwinding. 

Alte settles home, flush against Kanin’s thighs as the man clenches experimentally around Alte’s cock. 

“Comfortable?” Jugend asks, nails trailing over Kanin’s scalp as the man breaks free from Alte’s lips with a gasp. 

“God, yes, _Jugend-_ ” 

Two long fingers lip down to pinch at a nipple, drawing a grateful whine from Kanin’s throat. “Don’t be impatient,” Jugend chastises, but he’s already moving to meet the man, those pale thighs parting as he climbs over Kanin’s shoulders. 

A palm plants itself over Kanin’s navel when Alte straightens to give him space, correcting back up to the man’s sternum when Jugend finds his balance. Alte has the immense pleasure of watching Kanin’s hands jump to Jugend’s thighs, pulling him down far enough that Kanin can get his mouth on him. 

Alte straightens to watch them, watch how Kanin’s fingers dig bruises into Jugend’s pale skin. He can imagine the way Kanin’s tongue moves, exploring every inch of Jugend with reverence as the taller man groans and settles. 

Jugend presses bracing fingertips to Kanin's sternum, adjusting himself over the man’s eager mouth as he grinds back. It’s an enticing view, and Alte can’t stand to be apart from it, leaning forward to claim Jugend’s lips for himself. 

They’re met eagerly, teeth and tongue joining moments later as Jugend takes control, fingers slipping into Alte’s hair and yanking tight. It’s dizzying, being caught beneath Jugend’s firm grip, pulled this way and that as Kanin’s heels catch against the small of his back. 

When Alte has enough of a mind to, he draws his hips back and slides back into Kanin. He hears the moan Kanin gives him, the sound echoed by Jugend against Alte’s own lips. The sound is invigorating, so Alte does it again, and again, until he’s picked up a rhythm, drawn into the cradle of Kanin’s thighs by the legs wrapped over his hips. He barely has a chance to catch a breath, one hand curling down to Kanin’s hips and the other splaying across Jugend’s neck, tickling into his longer locks. 

Jugend pulls back with a gasp, lips swollen and cheeks aflame, his grip tightening in its handful of Alte’s hair. The younger doesn’t even protest when Jugend leverages him down, his lips finding something new to suck when he bends to accommodate. 

It’s easy to close his mouth around Jugend’s member, layer a hand over his hip to track the rock of them down onto Kanin’s artful tongue. Jugend grinds between the two of them, panting hard as they draw him apart. 

Alte pulls off only to slide a hand beneath Kanin’s left thigh, leverage it up until he can hook the man’s calf over his shoulder and drive into him at a new angle, one that draws shouts from the man’s muffled lips, spur him to a more vigorous pace. Then Alte lowers his head back to Jugend’s cock and takes him to the root just to hear Jugend’s pitch rise to match Kanin’s. 

He knows when Jugend is close, his nails scraping Alte’s scalp when his grip tightens, making an anchor of the man’s head as he worships Jugend’s cock with his tongue. He fumbles down to take Kanin’s cock in hand again, draw a long and needy sob from the man’s throat, his grip slicking quickly with how much the teniente’s member leaks from his touch alone. 

It’s messy and unorchestrated, but Alte appreciates the rawness, the genuity of it, more than anything else he’s ever experienced. Loves the way the pair of them tug at Alte like they can’t get him close enough, grinding down into his throat and rutting up into his palm. 

He’s not sure who comes first, only that it sets off a reaction that has them all toppling in domino, bellowing their pleasure into each other’s flesh. 

Jugend collapses forward, nails hitching beneath Alte’s shoulder blades as he empties into the man’s throat, Alte’s jaw slack and pliant as his own orgasm rolls over him. Everything is a mess of white, the heat on his tongue and around his cock searing as Alte moans through it all, blissful. 

He collapses into Jugend’s lap when he’s spent, hooking an arm around the man’s hips as he buries his forehead in Jugend’s thigh. Those long fingers thread into his hair as Jugend manoeuvres them, slipping off Kanin’s face to slump boneless into the sheets. When Alte opens his eyes, lashes wet, Kanin’s own dark orbs are inches from his, dazed. There’s the most gorgeous expression on Kanin’s features, and Alte lifts a shaking hand to trail a thumb over his slack, wet lips, dip against his tongue so Kanin can taste himself. 

“Look at you two,” Jugend croons above them, his aloof demeanour marred by the croak of overused vocal chords. A thumb traces the shell of Alte’s ear, and the thigh beneath his cheek trembles with exertion. 

Kanin slips his mouth off Alte’s digit to kiss the bone of Jugend’s ankle, the only part of him he can reach right now, half-crushed beneath Alte’s weight. His eyes when he flicks them up to hold Jugend’s gaze are enamoured. 

Jugend’s lips twist in a smile, a soft huff of air parting from them as he glances away. He pushes Alte off his lap, and Alte moans when his temple pillows on the sheets in the man’s absence. 

“I’m going to have a shower,” he announces, slipping off the side of the bed to stretch out his legs. He looks truly glorious, all of him shimmering in his afterglow, nude and unabashed as he smiles down at them. “Feel free to join me whenever you two manage to untangle from one another.” 

Kanin gives him an acknowledging groan, and Alte turns his head to track the man’s movements as he saunters into the ensuite. When the door closes behind him, Alte lowers his gaze back to the spent teniente beneath him. 

“You need me to carry you?” Alte teases, as Kanin’s heels slip off his back. 

“Get out of me, kid,” Kanin orders, but it’s softened by the twitch of a smile. 

Alte does, pulling out slowly when Kanin groans, hips flexing as he stretches out on the sheets. That blush is fading back into his skin, though the marks Alte’s left on him are just beginning to rise, spackled between faint scars. 

“We’d better check on him,” Kanin sighs, and winces when he shifts. Alte pushes up off the bed, but hesitates over him, grinning. 

“You sure you don’t need a hand, old man?” 

“Just because I’ve taken your dick,” Kanin reminds him, “doesn’t mean I can’t still wipe the floor with you, Alte. Go check on Jugend.” 

Alte hesitates, smile broadening when Kanin’s eyes slide back up to hold his. “Ask me nicely.” 

There’s a moment of surprise, and then a smirk that sparks in Kanin’s gaze more than on his lips. He reaches up to take Alte’s chin between his fingers, the motion shockingly intimate when he pulls him down to kiss him, slow and grateful. It’s all warmth where before there was heat, and Alte finds his shoulders unwinding beneath their gentle pull, the tender slip of that tongue. 

When he pulls apart, it’s only far enough that a breath can fit between their lips, and Kanin murmurs, “Please, Alte,” with a smile that Alte can feel warming down to his bones. 

“You got it, boss,” he mumbles back, pecking another kiss to them before he straightens to head for the hiss of water beyond the ensuite door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was my birthday last week, and all I could think about was giving you guys something to celebrate with me. I hope you enjoy this December update! 
> 
> We won't be going back to the regular chapter updates, but I am aiming to have the next chapter out to you as soon as it's complete.


	32. Fulfillment

“I feel like we’re doing this backwards,” Jugend comments over a vintage that has four S’s on the label. Alte had gotten a peek at the bottle when the waiter had offered it to the mafia don, uncorking it with practiced care as they’d taken their seats. “I think we’re supposed to take him to dinner _before_ we bed him.” 

Alte doesn’t let that sink any deeper than skin surface, already dreading how he’s going to keep a straight face for the whole of tonight. He keeps his gaze down and mentally coaches himself through remembering which order to use the forks in. They haven’t even brought out the breads yet, but Alte’s already feeling out of his depth. Any preparation is good preparation. 

Kanin scoffs. “Did you want to buy him breakfast instead?” 

Jugend’s lips twitch, but he lowers his gaze dutifully to the menu. “Oh, I think we covered breakfast.” 

Alte’s ears heat at that comment. They’d spent their first morning after in the kitchen, the small of Alte’s back pressed up against the breakfast nook counter while Kanin had attentively taken Alte’s cock down his throat and Jugend had ground his thumb into the bruises on Alte’s chest. He’d come at the sight of Jugend’s come joining his on Kanin’s face, the tentiente’s lashes fluttering with his gratitude as they’d spilled together. 

Jugend’s smile is severe, and richly pleased as Alte squirms in his seat. “You’re making him uncomfortable.” 

“Uncomfortable is one word,” Alte mutters back, and Jugend grins. 

But straightens in his seat, clearing his throat softly. “I can behave for one night. Kanin insisted that we were supposed to be gentlemen for an evening; I can play along.” 

“Your altruism would be easier to believe if I wasn’t convinced you were only in it for what comes after,” Kanin growls, but his eyes are on the menu. Alte hasn’t even looked down at the tiny print text in the leather-bound book beneath him. It doesn’t look like much reading, the selections on each page sparse, but that doesn’t improve the way Alte’s stomach is twisting with nerves. 

Jugend just snorts in a way that’s entirely too elegant for the derision on his features. “I’m enjoying the company. And I hear the food here is fantastic.” 

Kanin seems to settle somewhat at that assessment, so Alte can only assume that the venue choice was his. His dark gaze hasn’t stopped flicking to Alte all night, from the moment he’d pulled out Alte’s chair for him at the table. 

He’d have assumed it was a test, if the man weren’t so obviously invested in ensuring Alte has a good experience. There’s a nervousness to Kanin that Alte hasn’t seen before; it’s endearing. 

“Do you know what you want to order?” the teniente asks, warm gaze settling on Alte when he tugs his chair closer to the table and opens his menu. 

The text swims in front of his eyes, indecipherable. Alte clears his throat nervously, beating back the blush he can feel heating his cheeks. 

“I think you should try the wine,” Jugend interjects, swilling the burgundy-filled glass in his palm. 

“Not a fan of wine,” Alte mumbles, and frowns down at the menu again. He thinks there’s six dishes to choose from, little sectioned paragraphs that barely fill half the crisp white space. “But I’m also not keen on a repeat of The Office.” 

Jugend scoffs. “We agreed we’d keep it light tonight. I want to actually remember our date.” 

Alte’s heart does an odd little skip at the word ‘date’, something tugging behind his sternum that makes a smile waver on his lips. He keeps his eyes fixed on the page and offers, “A whiskey would be nice.” 

“On the rocks?” Kanin interjects, gaze lifting to summon a waiter. Alte nods, and barely a moment later, one materialises from the dim lighting beyond the pool of the table. “Two whiskies, top shelf; one on the rocks, the other neat.” 

When Alte looks up to watch the waiter retreat with their order, Jugend is watching him, chin leaned up on a lazy palm. His green eyes are soft and indolent, all of him relaxed for a blessed minute. Not a thought of work on his mind, if Alte had to guess. It’s a good look on him. 

“Yes?” he prompts, eyes flicking back down. 

“I’m not allowed to look at you?” Jugend returns easily, and Alte fights back a flush. 

“You spend plenty of time looking at me,” Alte replies, shifting in his seat. The menu moves beneath his palm, knocking a small fork askew. Alte straightens it, wondering belatedly if he’s going to have to order more than one dish. 

Turning the page he’s on reveals another much the same, and Alte’s stomach sinks. 

“It’s my favourite pastime,” Jugend drawls around a smile. 

Alte can’t help how distracted his tone is when he answers, “Is it?” 

Across the table, Kanin closes his menu with finality, and scolds Jugend with, “Get your elbow off the table. Your mother would have something to say about your manners.” 

Jugend rolls his eyes, and Alte quickly checks that his own elbows aren’t anywhere near the vicinity of the tablecloth. The nerves are slowly ascending up the back of his throat, every reminder of how out of his depth he is ratcheting them higher. 

When Kanin’s gaze flicks to him, Alte tries to focus ardently on the words on his page. “Alte?” the man prompts, a frown creasing his brow. His expression must be stricken to prompt the concern on Kanin’s features. “Is everything alright?” 

Panic crests, a fizzling pressure behind his sternum, as Alte’s hands clench on the leather-bound book he can’t possibly hope to read. 

“The kid’s menu usually comes with pictures,” Alte says with a sharp, grating laugh. 

Kanin’s features go horrifically slack, the warmth washing out of them. Even Jugend freezes beside him, going abrupting still in Alte’s peripheral, and regret rises swift to his tongue. 

“It’s fine, I didn’t mean-” Alte starts to babble. 

“Fuck,” Jugend curses softly, straightening. The admonishment is stark on his brow as he flips open his menu with haste. “Alte, we’re so sorry.” 

Heat clings to Alte’s cheeks. “It’s my fault, I should have mentioned earlier-” 

“It’s our fault,” Kanin cuts him off, dark gaze fixed down on his own now open menu. “We shouldn’t have forgotten. We didn’t mean to insinuate anything.” 

Alte swallows and draws his hands back down to his lap. Both of them are skimming the menu with furious determination. The sight is inexplicably endearing to Alte, and he can feel the tension slipping off his shoulders at the men’s consideration. 

“Is there anything you’re allergic to?” Jugend asks, thumbing between the first and second pages with a scowl. 

“Not that I know of,” Alte answers plainly, and Jugend nods to himself, index finger tracing the neatly printed text. 

“Are there any meats you don’t eat?” Kanin asks, a note of apology in his tone when those dark eyes rise to hold his. “I didn’t think to ask if you were religious.” 

Alte gives him a placating smile, lifting his hands in a surrender. “It’s fine, really, I’ll just have whatever you two are having.” 

Jugend’s head jerks up at that, that scowl twisted to something more searching. “But this is your dinner.” 

“It’s our chance to spoil you,” Kanin translates. 

“I thought it was to celebrate Jugend’s parole,” Alte says, tone too nerve-wracked to come across as teasing. “Now that he’s no longer interned in that mansion compound.” 

“We did celebrate that,” Jugend says, drawing heat to the tips of Alte’s ears again. He settles back in his seat, holding Alte’s gaze fondly. “Tonight is to celebrate you.” 

It makes a little laugh hiccup in Alte’s throat, one that tugs the corner of Jugend’s lips up. 

Their drinks arrive then, and Alte thanks their waiter graciously, startling when the man reaches for Alte’s yet untouched serviette. With a faint flourish, the man sets it across Alte’s lap, and he can’t stop the embarrassed flush that lights up his complexion. 

He’s starting to settle by the time Jugend and Kanin are given the same treatment, and Jugend leans across to ask him, voice pitched low and gentle, “Would you like a crash course?” 

Alte swallows down a flicker of humiliation. “Might be a good idea. I’ve never seen this much silverware in my life.” 

Jugend gives him a kind smile, the sight unusually warm on his features. Then he gestures to the array of silverware in front of them. “Work your way from the outside in, smallest for entree, largest for the mains. They’ll take your cutlery away with your finished plate.” 

“Or give you new cutlery if you need it,” Kanin interjects calmly, and Jugend nods. 

“Drink on the right,” he adds, and his chin swivels to the small plate on Alte’s other side, “bread plate on the left.” 

“Elbows don’t belong on the table,” Kanin reminds him, though the sentiment is directed more towards Jugend, who scoffs. 

“There’s a ton of other rules, like don’t dip into your sauce, and chew with your mouth closed. But honestly, who has time for that.” 

Alte gives a slow, testing nod. “I think I got it.” 

“Good,” Jugend enthuses, and straightens the serviette in his lap. “Then we can talk about what you’re going to eat.” 

It’s a learning curve, but Alte’s always been good on his feet. All things considered, he doesn't think he does too badly. Having Jugend and Kanin around to fill his awkward silences with inane chatter helps too, makes Alte feel less like every pair of eyes in the restaurant is focused on him and his mistakes. 

The food is exquisite, the company even more so as they laugh and tease over appetisers and mains. He doesn’t drop any cutlery, or break any glassware, and by the time the tiramisu comes out, Alte’s wondering why he made an ordeal of the whole thing. 

“So, what did you think?” Kanin asks as he slices the smallest fork yet into the layers of cake and coffee-cream. Alte watches the dessert disappear between his lips, chased by the flick of a pink tongue. 

“I’m enjoying it,” Alte admits, flashing a smile that takes the rest of the tension out of Kanin’s shoulders. “The whole night, I mean. Best date I’ve been on in… well, ever, honestly.” 

Kanin beams at that, hiding his glee in his napkin, but that doesn’t stop Alte’s chest fluttering at the sight. He clears his throat, wiping his lips before he sets it aside. His eyes gleam when he turns them on Jugend. “Best date,” he repeats, with just barely contained pride. 

Alte tries not to snort at the competitiveness between them, failing when Jugend arches a brow and sets his glass aside. 

“Best date so far,” Jugend stresses, smug. “He hasn’t been on my date yet.” 

That brings a grin to Alte’s lips that he doesn’t manage to stifle for the rest of the night. Especially not when Kanin leans over on the ride back to Goose, hand cupping his jaw to pull Alte into a kiss that tastes like tiramisu and whiskey. Or when Jugend retaliates by straddling him on their bedcovers without even bothering to kick his shoes off, hands hot where they roam over Alte’s skin. 

He could get used to having two lovers like them, Alte thinks to himself as he curls a hand into Kanin's nightshirt and his nose into Jugend's shoulder. He falls asleep sandwiched between both their bodies, nudging something in his chest that feels an awful lot like contentment. 


	33. Attachment

“I thought you were a good shot,” Alte comments lightly, leaning a hip up against the counter as he twists to watch Jugend align the rifle’s sights. The shot goes wide, knocking over a few cans but not the coveted bottle. 

Jugend’s lip curls in frustration when he lowers the stock from his shoulder and reloads. “I am a good shot,” he mutters, snapping the chamber closed. “The sights on this thing are bogus.” 

Behind him, arms crossed over his chest, Kanin buries a scoff in a smile and lifts his gaze skyward. The fairy lights that string between the stalls, sectioning the boardwalk into brightly lit slices, catch in his eyes and Alte grins at him. Grins wider when Kanin catches him staring and blushes. 

Alte slides a palm down Jugend’s hip, fingers straying beneath the cinch of his belt as he watches Jugend line up nonetheless. Resolute in his determination. “I don’t _have_ to get that bear, you know,” he teases in a low tone, gaze snapping up when Jugend fires clean into a bottle. 

There’s a victorious glint to his eyes when he straightens to survey his shot. When he turns them on Alte, it’s with a mischievous curl of a smile that draws heat through Alte’s veins. “Who said anything about that bear being for you?” 

That makes him laugh, fingers curling in his belt as Jugend hands the rifle off to Kanin with a challenging brow. The teniente takes the gun with a roll of his eyes, lining up down the sights while Jugend hooks a thumb around Alte’s throat and presses a slow, possessive kiss down onto his lips. 

“And here I thought this was _my_ date,” Alte murmurs when Jugend pulls back, green eyes swimming with mirth and heat. 

Behind them, Kanin shoots over a can, and Alte’s gaze flicks towards him at the noise. Jugend chastises him with a small hickey on the side of his exposed throat. 

“I can spoil you with anything I wish,” Jugend reminds him, watching Alte’s pulse dance beneath the mark. 

Alte meets his gaze, unyielding even when a shiver traces up the wet skin. “And if I want the bear?” 

Jugend’s hand climbs down his spine, gaze snaring his. There’s a challenge there, a burn that scorches Alte’s veins. “Ask nicely.” 

“My date,” Alte repeats, aware that he’s pushing a bruise. 

Jugend leans in to murmur, hot against the shell of Alte’s ear. “ _My_ date, baby.” 

Alte doesn’t budge, even though his spine trembles at the low threat in Jugend’s tone, trapped in by the man’s hand. “I want the bear.” 

“I think you just want to see me handle a gun some more,” Jugend murmurs, and Alte swallows. Jugend’s teeth show in his smirk. 

“Are you two done?” Kanin interjects, and Jugend turns to regard him coolly where he stands, gun in one hand. His expression is unimpressed, dominating his stance as he hands the rifle off to Jugend, who takes it with a grin. 

He steps away from Alte to curl against Kanin’s frame, thumb digging into the arch of his hip. “How many do I need to hit?” 

Kanin relinquishes the gun, returning to Alte’s side as Jugend crooks the butt against his shoulder. “Three points. One bottle should do it.” 

The mafioso aligns his good eye with the sights. “You want me to hit the bottle or the ring?” 

Kanin crosses his arms over his chest, but he looks quietly pleased. “Quit showing off.” 

Jugend’s teeth gleam. “You like it.” 

“Hurry up and shoot.” 

Jugend laughs, carefree and glorious, but focuses on the back wall of the stall. The muscles in his face slide into strict focus as he aligns with the singular bottle that remains, glinting softly beneath the swaying fairlights. Squeezes down on the trigger and absorbs the kick as the bottle clatters over into the trough behind. 

When he lifts his head, there’s a victorious grin on his lips, one that makes Alte want to lean over and kiss him. The expression on Kanin’s face tells him it’s mutual. 

Jugend hooks up the rifle on its stand, turning back to arch a brow at them both. Preening, over both of them, in Alte had to guess. 

He’s hardly surprised when Jugend pushes the overstuffed plushie into his arms, looking far too pleased with his prize as they head back down the boardwalk, loitering beneath the net of lights. 

“It’s a joint gift,” Kanin is arguing, though it sounds like he’s more in the argument to rile Jugend up than to actually win it. 

“ _I_ won the bear.” 

“I shot some of the bottles.” 

“You shot _one_ bottle,” Jugend corrects with bright green eyes. The smirk is still on his lips, contagious in its mirth. 

Kanin’s eyes roll, but he weathers Jugend’s unbridled enthusiasm with a small smile. Alte’s heart feels like it’s too big for his damn chest, stomach bubbling at the sound of their carefree bickering when Jugend tucks an arm around his waist and steers them away from the stall. 

“So what started this obsession with guns?” 

Jugend hums, but Alte doesn’t miss the way Kanin stiffens uncomfortably beside him, drawing his attention. “You want the honest answer, or the pretty answer?” 

Alte frowns, holds that calm green, unreadable gaze for a minute. “Honest, always.” 

“Bieder taught me,” Jugend answers simply, and Alte’s stomach clenches reflexively. For all his posturing, the mafioso seems unusually serene. “He took me to my first range when I was nine. It was our special thing we bonded over. None of my other siblings shared that with him.” 

“That’s…” Alte can’t work out what he’s supposed to say to that, knowing the man’s history. 

Jugend’s lips twitch in a knowing smile, hands sliding into his pocket. He’s in an unnaturally good mood, and that’s the only reason Alte can discern as to why he hasn’t had his head ripped off yet for misstepping. 

“We used to be really close, before everything. My uncle taught me everything I know about guns. Walked me through my first time, taught me about the recoil, perfecting my stance, how to field strip a pistol.” 

The only words that come to Alte’s lips, heavy in his chest, are, “I’m sorry.” 

Green eyes flick up to hold his, enigmatic. “Nothing for you to apologise for,” Jugend says, a faintly bitter note to his tone. He stretches after a moment though, casting his gaze out over the grounds. “I don’t want to think about him tonight.” 

Alte flounders for what to say, to fill the harsh silence left by that admission. 

“We could eat,” Kanin offers, but Jugend shakes his head. 

“Too many chili dogs.” 

“Then what do you want to do next?” 

“Should we ride the ferris wheel?” Jugend asks with a curl of a smile, and Kanin cranes his gaze up to survey the hulking metal structure at the edge of the boardwalk. Alte follows suit, eyeing the faded red paint and the way the lights glint off the facade. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that high,” Alte murmurs absently, and Jugend glances at him with a grin that promises mischief. 

His fingers wind into Alte’s, tugging him forward as they meander through the throng of people. “Time to join the mile high club then, baby.” 

Alte blanches, glancing over his shoulder at Kanin’s unimpressed snort before he fixes his concerned stare on the blonde. “You’re not serious. We’re not actually-” 

“What? I’ve never known you to turn down a blowjob,” Jugend quips, ducking around to slot into the line. It’s short, only a few people ahead of them as the wheel rotates slowly overhead. Jugend sets his palms on the banister and leans back to survey Alte. “You’re not getting shy on me, are you?” 

“You’re not blowing me on my very first ferris wheel,” Alte scolds him with a frown, the words echoed by Kanin’s agreeing hum. Jugend rolls his eyes. “The bear doesn’t give you a free pass.” 

Jugend’s eyes snap down to hold his, sharp in the lowlight. When he straightens, it’s to reinforce the difference in their heights, to press the heat of him against Alte when he crooks his lips to the man’s ear. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” 

Alte mumbles something about climbing and trees that Jugend laughs off when the attendant beckons them into their carriage. 

He makes sure to sit as close to the barred windows as he can on his ride up, if only so he can get the best view of the Chicago skyline possible. It’s a wilderness of lights and shadows, broader and busier than Alte’s ever had the pleasure of seeing it before. He’s more than a little surprised to discover he doesn’t mind the idea of calling it home. 

It steals his breath a little, whipping it away with the cold air up here. The kind that makes his ears and nose pink to join the flush on his cheeks when Jugend crawls into his lap at the apex. 

Alte thinks about how easy it all feels, how safe _he_ feels, with a mafia don at his back and a teniente beside him. How easily he fits in with them, more than he ever has in any of the innumerable cities he’s flitted through in his youth. How _right_ it feels, here and now, in this moment with them. 

Making out with Jugend grinding in his lap, Kanin’s fingers peeling back the collar of his shirt to bite down the length of Alte’s collarbones. 

“You really know how to show a guy a good time,” Alte mumbles against Kanin’s cheekbone, gasping hard when he sucks a hickey into his throat. Jugend’s nails slide through his hair, tearing his attention between them as the carriage rocks gently. 

“Don’t you know it, baby,” Jugend replies breathlessly, eyes bright in the gleam of the lights. The smile on his lips is contagious, has Alte arching up to taste the mirth there. 

They don’t fuck on the ferris wheel, to Alte’s immense relief. They even manage to make it all the way back to Jugend’s apartment before the pair of them descend on him, shoving him back onto his mattress and kicking the bear to the floor in their excitement. 

It sits in the corner of Alte’s room for the next few weeks, purely so he can enjoy the pleased glint in Jugend’s eye whenever he enters. It’s not until Jugend’s ego starts getting unbearable that Alte decides to stash the bear in the enormous closet that lines one wall. 

He’s halfway to cramming the oversized plush onto the top shelf when it knocks something loose with a clatter. When Alte turns resignedly to see what’s shattered across the carpet, he stills, heart sinking swiftly at the sight. 

The box has fallen, ornate wood gleaming beneath the artificial lights. The carpet is littered with yellow envelopes, tempting in their innocuity. 

Alte bends to retrieve one, and the thumb drive inside slips loose, cascading between his grappling fingers to fall at his feet. The envelope in his hands is emblazoned with a dark six, scrawled in damning marker across the faded paper. It feels like it's burning in Alte’s sweaty palm. 

So he stands there, staring at the drive for longer than he really should, mind abuzz with what could possibly have had Kanin so spooked. Wondering if those same conditions still apply. 

He’d stashed the box as he’d asked, nearby enough that Alte could hand it back at a moment’s notice. Rid himself of the burden those drives promise. Near enough to keep his promise. 

But things are different now. _They’re_ different now. 

Partners or lovers or a word Alte can’t exactly put a label to just yet. Equals, in more ways than one. 

And equals don’t keep things from each other. 

That’s what Alte tells himself, at least, clutching the envelope in his palm and swallowing down the vibrating nausea that ripples through his core at the sight of the box, and its ten neat envelopes, and its innocuous thumb drives. 

He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t look. But he wants to. 

Wants to understand Jugend and Kanin. Wants to understand the men he’s connected to now, the men he’s sharing a bed with. The men he shouldn’t have to keep secrets like this from, nor they from him. 

It doesn’t completely assuage the guilt when Alte flips open his laptop and shoves the thumb drive into the port. A video flickers onto the screen, and Alte’s hand hovers over the button before he swallows hard, steels himself, and presses play. 

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist for [Retributory Shroud](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5URjrKRVZKYhbUy44mhvzq?si=Deb0QLbiSFK_Aw_qBmU5yw) on Spotify. 
> 
> **Feel free to ask any questions about/to Jugend, Kanin and Alte on the new interactive[Tumblr](https://just-mobinos-things.tumblr.com/). ** Over there you'll find art, content tags and extra trivia info. You're welcome to ask any question in the comments below, too. I love learning what interests you about them.
> 
> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


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